Poor Butterfly

“I’ll …” Lundeen stood up.

“Big black limo with teeth,” I said. “It’s waiting.”

Stokowski strode to the end of the stage and went down the steps. We followed him and I wondered what the hell we had gone up onto the stage for.

“You come recommended by a mutual friend,” Stokowski said as he walked up the aisle and out the door into the corridor. “Basil Rathborie. He and I recently did Prokofiev’s Peter and the Wolf with the All-American Orchestra for Columbia Records. Basil said you could be trusted.”

Stokowski walked briskly. I kept up. Lundeen had to work at it.

“The situation is this,” he said. “Assuming this building can be made presentable, an opening performance of Madame Butterfly will take place in two days. I am skeptical. The young lady you saw me talking to, Vera …”

“… Tenatti,” Lundeen panted.

“… will make her debut,” said Stokowski. “Giancarlo and his board wanted Bidu Sayao, but she is doing another Puccini, Manon, at the Metropolitan in New York. This girl is passable. Promising. I will conduct on opening night only. I must get back to New York. I have a contract with NBC, but I have agreed to lend my support, advice, and name to this project In exchange for this support, Giancarlo has graciously agreed not only to pay me a reasonable fee but to donate 50 percent of all profits during his first season to relief for refugee children in my name.”

We were at the front door. Lundeen moved ahead of us to open it Sunlight blinded us. I was looking at Stokowski. He didn’t blink.

“Sounds great” I said. “And you want me to play Pinkerton?”

Stokowski laughed.

“You are already playing a Pinkerton and we have an operatic Pinkerton,” he said. “A tenor named …”

“… Passacaglia,” Lundeen supplied.

“Tenors exist to be killed at the end of Act Two,” sighed Stokowski. “In any case, he has done the role many times. He fancies 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 use the work,” I said. “And I’ll take it, but …”

“I received a call the morning after the unfortunate Mr. Wyler fell from the scaffolding,” Stokowski said. “A raspy voice, a baritone possibly, said a single word, ‘One,’ and hung up. Perhaps it is coincidence, but since the police will not investigate, I thought it prudent to enlist your services both to protect the production and to identify this Erik. It is my hope that nothing is amiss. Is that your automobile?”

He was pointing at my Crosley.

“Yes,” I said.

“I should like to ride in it at some point,” he said. “Giancarlo will give you what you need.”

With that he shook my hand, climbed into the back of the limo, and was gone.

“Well?” asked Lundeen.

“Twenty a day and expenses, like I told the lady on the phone,” I said, pocketing the note Lundeen had handed me. “And fifty for a retainer.”

“That is most reasonable,” he said. “Shall we go to my office and sign a contract?”

“Your word’s good enough.”

It wasn’t that I trusted Lundeen, or even Stokowski. I’ve been stiffed by the poor and the unpoor alike, but a contract with the rich doesn’t mean anything. You can’t sue them. Even if you win, you’d be behind on lawyer fees. It’s better to take your chances and give the impression that you trust people, even overweight people who sweat in cool weather.

“Thank you,” said Lundeen.

“Two quick questions,” I said. “First, you saw someone climbing up the scaffolding just before this Wyler fell?”

“A man in a black cape, which seemed odd, but this is a city of odd people,” sighed Lundeen.

“Second question. Who’s Erik?” I asked as we headed back up the steps.

Lundeen laughed, a deep laugh that made the workmen and women turn their heads in our direction.

“Erik,” he said, “was the Phantom of the Opera.”