Stuart Kaminsky - Poor Butterfly

Someone knocked at the door and Souvaine called for whoever it was to enter. In came the old lady who had spotted me from the window. She was carrying a tray, which she placed on a table in front of us.

“Bertha,” said Souvaine. “How thoughtful of you. And of the kitchen ladies.”

Bertha straightened up and looked at me. She wasn’t sure what her feelings should be. I confused her even further.

“You’re J. Minor’s widow, aren’t you?” I asked, reaching for something that might be lemonade. There were two other lemonades on the tray. When Souvaine reached for the one in front of him, I put mine back on the tray and took his. He shook his head and accepted the trade.

“I am,” Bertha said.

“Is that the best picture you have of J. Minor?” I asked, turning to look at the uncomfortable man.

“My departed was fond of that photograph,” she said, beaming at the photograph through her thick glasses. “I think he looks very stately.”

“I think he looks like a man with constipation,” I said.

“Mr. Peters,” Souvaine said with just a touch of what might have been warning. “Is it necessary to insult the dead?”

“No,” I said, “but Puccini is dead, too. Your people, including the widow Bertha, are standing in front of the Opera insulting him all day.”

“He did suffer from constipation,” Bertha said.

“Puccini?” I asked, surprised.

“No,” said Bertha, flustered. “J. Minor suffered from constipation.”

“You have a picture somewhere where he looks less in eternal pain?” I tried.

“Mr. Peters, I must …” Souvaine said gently.

“Only the one at the beach in his bathing suit with Errol and Faye on my birthday,” said Bertha eagerly. “I think I could find it. Would that be acceptable, Reverend?”

“If it is your will and that of God,” he said, turning to Bertha and taking her hands in his as he stood. “If God doesn’t mind J. Minor Frank being witnessed cavorting on the beach in his briefs, then I certainly do not mind. It is between you and God.”

“I don’t think I’ll do it,” she said, looking down at me. I sipped my lemonade and shrugged.

“Good lemonade,” I said.

Souvaine ushered Bertha to the door while I toasted Deacon Ortiz, who watched me without taking his drink. When Bertha was safely out, Souvaine went back to his couch and smiled, showing perfect white teeth.

“You are good,” Souvaine said.

“Not as good as you,” I said. “At least at this kind of game. I play other games better.”

“Our Mr. Ortiz in his youth played many games,” Souvaine said, patting Ortiz’s ample leg. “I think he is capable of playing them again. Is there anything else you wish to alter in the sanctuary?”

“Those paintings,” I said. “Bertha must have done them.”

“No.”

“Then whoever sold them to you took you for a ride.”

“You don’t like our Jesus,” he said sadly. “Or our Washington or Lincoln. You have no empathy for the heartfelt primitive artist.”

I leaned forward. “You got junk on your wall, Rev,” I whispered. “What do you think?”

“Mr. Ortiz painted those pictures,” the Reverend whispered back.

“A man of many talents. Let’s get down to business,” I said.

Mr. Ortiz took his lemonade and drank it down in two gulps.

Souvaine leaned back and examined the backs of his hands before he spoke.

“Gladly,” he said. “This nation was founded under God, trusting in God. It is part of our heritage. The principle of separation of Church and State is not possible. It is neither possible nor right. God does not forsake any part of his dominion. There are conflicting forces in our nation. There is a new burst of religious understanding. Do you know what the New York Times best-selling novels are this week?”

“ Mother Finds a Baby by Gypsy Rose Lee and Love’s Lovely Counterfeit by James M. Cain,” I guessed.

“ The Robe and The Song of Bernadette ,” Souvaine countered triumphantly. “This nation has not forsaken its Christian foundations.”

I wasn’t sure that religious fervor accounted for the popularity of best-sellers, but Souvaine was into a sermon now, pacing the floor.

“But you are right, too, Mr. Peters. There are godless books, godless candidates. The Japanese are a godless race. To allow the presentation of a play which sympathizes with a Japanese harlot and makes a Christian American naval officer seem heartless would be to play into the hands of the enemy. And let us be clear about this. Japan is not only the enemy of the United States but the enemy of our God-for God and the United States must remain inseparable.”

“Whose God?” I asked.

“There is but one true God,” he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a clean, ironed handkerchief to wipe his brow and palms.

“You know who killed the plasterer?” I asked.

Souvaine looked at me, disoriented.

“Plasterer,” I repeated. “Or who tried to strangle Lorna Bartholomew this afternoon … or plant an ax in my chest?”

“No.”

“Might it have been God?” I tried, looking at Mr. Ortiz, who had put his lemonade glass back on the tray to give me his undivided attention.

“God does not condone murder or violence except to protect the …” he began and then stopped. “I do not know who did such things. I am not at all sure that I believe such things have been done. It is my understanding that the plasterer fell.”

“Maybe.” I said. “Have you got a live wire in the pews? Someone who might decide to give God a little help?”

“No one,” Souvaine said, with righteous indignation. “None in my congregation.”

“How about Mr. Ortiz?” I said, looking at the deacon. No reaction.

“Absurd,” said Souvaine. “I’m afraid you see the righteousness of our cause and are-with Satan’s help, whether you know it or not-trying to discredit us. It shall not be, Mr. Peters. Know you that it shall not be.”

“I think I’ll be going,” I said, getting up.

Ortiz got up with me.

“I think that would be best,” said Souvaine. “I’m sorry I have been unable to convince you of my sincerity. You receive the truth from me, Mr. Peters, more than you will receive from your Stokowski.”

Souvaine moved to the desk and picked up a pad of paper with neat little letters on it. The pad had been waiting there for this moment.

“Your Leopold Stokowski is a liar, a fornicator, and we mean to expose the rot in the belly of the beast,” he said without looking down at the pad. “He claims to have been born in Poland. He was not. He was born in England. That accent of his is a fraud. He invented it. He tells people that he is an expert violinist. He cannot play the instrument. He has committed adultery on numerous occasions and with both married and unmarried women, including Greta Garbo.”

Souvaine threw the pad down on the table.

“How say you to these charges?”

“Reverend,” I said, moving toward the door. “Your sincerity’s not on the line here. Your beliefs, or the ones you’re selling, are. And Stokowski’s life has nothing to do with it.”

“We will see to it that it becomes an issue,” he said.

I reached for the door. Souvaine nodded and Ortiz stepped in front of me, barring my way, arms ready at his sides.

“I will release this information with supporting evidence to the press in the morning,” said Souvaine.

“Probably boost ticket sales,” I said. “Between you and me and Deacon Ortiz here, tickets aren’t going so well. A little publicity might spice things up. Now please ask Mr. Ortiz to step out of the way.”

“If murder and assault are going on in that building,” cried Souvaine, “then I point the finger at the true Judas, the company of Satan’s minions who are trying to stir up rumor and tales of the violation of God’s laws to draw in the unwary.”