Stuart Kaminsky: Poor Butterfly

Even under a bright morning sun, the San Francisco Metropolitan Opera Building looked like a tired old stone monster with sagging shoulders. It was in the wrong place, outside of downtown, within sight of the shipyards, tucked between a rotting warehouse that looked like a windowless airplane hangar and an empty lot with a peeling black-on-white sign yawning that this choice property was available for immediate development.

I parked behind a black limo in front of the building. A chauffeur about my size in gray uniform leaned against the car, his cap on the hood. He was reading a dime detective magazine, which now cost fifteen cents. A couple of men and a woman in overalls were patching holes in the dozen stone steps that led up to the main door of the building. They tried to pay no attention to the two old women and a man on the sidewalk carrying signs and walking patrol.

I read the signs as I moved toward the Opera. It was easy; all three turned their signs toward me. The closest, held up by an ancient rickety woman with a maniacal grin, read: NO WAGNER, NO JAP OPERA. The second old woman’s sign read: NO SYMPATHY, NO QUARTER FOR THE JAPANESE. The old man, in full suit and tie, a few wisps of unruly white hair dangling down his furrowed forehead, held up the final sign, which read: BUTTERFLY UNDERMINES AMERICAN RESOLVE. KILL JAPS, DON’T LOVE THEM.

“Sir,” said the old man, “are you an American?”

“I’m a private detective,” I replied, moving past them and up a few steps.

“That is an evasion,” he shouted. “Reverend Souvaine says there is no room for evasion. Our nation is at war with a godless enemy.”

“Amen,” chorused the old lady picketers.

I went up the rest of the steps to the main door to the building. I stood for a few seconds trying to follow the twists and curls of the design covering the recently repainted wooden doors, then I went in.

I’d spent the night in one of the shacks they called motels out on the Pacific Coast Highway. Hundreds of these motels with cute names had sprung up on California highways and back roads since the war had started up. The second little pig had built a more sturdy home than the cabin of the California Palms Motor Hotel I had slept in the night before. Even with the windows closed and my radio playing Horace Heidt, I couldn’t drown out the trio battling in Spanish in the next cabin. They fought till about three in the morning. Horace Heidt had long since put his baton away, and I had taken a shower in brownish, not very hot water.

So, I’d had little sleep. When I’d shaved a few hours ago, I was reasonably satisfied. My hair was reasonably short, with just enough gray in the sideburns to suggest I had been around long enough to know what I was doing. The battered nose and worn face indicated my knowledge of life hadn’t come from books, and my new jacket with the zippered pockets suggested that, while I wasn’t in on the latest styles, I could afford to keep out the Northern California cold.

I could tell as soon as I entered the dark entrance hall that the Opera building was bigger than it looked from the outside. I stood, letting my eyes adjust to the sudden change in light. Somewhere deep inside, far away, a woman’s voice echoed in song. An orchestra brassed behind her.

“Like the sound of a finger run gently around the rim of a delicate English wineglass containing a perfect cabernet,” a deep voice said in the darkness.

My eyes were adjusting, but I didn’t look around for him. Instead I examined the walls, the ceiling that went up four stories. There were windows, high on the wall. They were papered over but light was coming through. I began to make out corners.

“Nice voice,” I said.

“Hers or mine?” he said, stepping out of a deep shadow.

He was big, rather overweight, maybe my age. His dark hair was long, almost to his collar, and combed straight back. He was wearing a pair of dark pants and a dark sports jacket. A yellow polo shirt added color to his outfit. As he stepped closer, his hands clasped together as if he were about to launch into a solo, I could see his dark, smooth face. The little black beard and thin mustache made him look a little like a pudgy Mandrake the Magician. There was something familiar about the face.

“You recognize me perhaps?” he said.

“You’ve been in the movies,” I said, putting my hands in the unzipped side pockets of my new jacket.

“ A movie,” he said, stepping still closer, “and … shhh .” He held a ringed finger up to his lips to stop our conversation as the faraway voice of the woman rose, quivered. A smile crossed the man’s face. His eyes closed. His head weaved. He was a ham. The aria ended. The woman’s voice stopped.

“A movie,” he resumed. “I’ll sing again.”

“You will?”

He chuckled. “ I’ll Sing Again was the name of the movie. I am Giancarlo Lunaire. Or at least I was Giancarlo Lunaire for twelve seasons, fourteen albums, and one very disastrous movie. Now I am, as I was born, John Lundeen.”

He put out a hand and I shook it. I felt the metal of his rings cold against my fingers and saw the even line of large white teeth.

“You are, I am assuming, Toby Peters?”

“I am.”

“Good, I wouldn’t like to think I was wasting all this charm on a building contractor. Come. The Maestro is expecting you at …”

“… ten,” I supplied.

“Then we have a few minutes,” he said, an arm around my shoulder, leading me down a corridor. He guided me to a wall and threw a switch. The place lit up. It looked like someone who had seen too many movies set in France before the Revolution had decorated it with vanilla frosting.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” Lundeen said, sweeping his hand to invite me to take the whole thing in.

“Yeah,” I said.

He led me down the corridor and pointed out curls and designs, little plaster figures nestled in niches papered with cherubs, and bare-breasted women carrying urns on their shoulders.

“This magnificent edifice was created by Samuel Varney Keel in the 1860s and seriously damaged in the 1906 earthquake. It was used as a storage warehouse until I convinced a group of patrons to reopen it. See those busts up there? The one with the broken nose?”

“I see it.”

“Keel was obsessive. He created the busts with flaws. Every cherub, every figure, every design in this labyrinthine structure was carefully, lovingly designed to make it look European, but his sense of Europe knew no century. Unfortunately, Keel was eclectic.”

“Eclectic,” I repeated as we approached a set of wooden doors at the end of the corridor.

“Yes, he …” Lundeen began.

“Took his ideas from a lot of different places,” I said.

“I apologize.”

“What for?” I asked.

“Condescension,” he said. “Can you forgive me?”

We had stopped. His hands were clasped in front of him. His head was tilted to one side. His smile was apologetic. A little of John Lundeen went a long way. I felt like blessing him before I gave him forgiveness.

“What’s the job?”

“Ah, the job,” Lundeen said, ushering me to one of the doors. “Millions have been invested in this structure. Millions. Including all of my own meager savings. Our investors wish less to realize a profit than to bring back the resplendence of grand opera in this noble edifice, to show the world that in these trying times, life, culture, and tradition can rise from the ashes and go on. We have the blessing of Mayor Rossi, Admiral King, many others, but we struggle, Mr. Peters. Ah, but we struggle. It is difficult to get skilled workmen during a war. Look around. You’ll see women and old men with tools and paint brushes. This has proven to be a task far greater than we anticipated. And we must open in three days.”