Butterfly Man. Lew Levenson

so that he would understand the stranger who was being born within him.

      ​He stood naked before the room-high mirror and could have cried with delight for the supple youthfulness of his body. Thus naked, he became truly beautiful; no blemish in the straight, graceful lines of his form. His shoulders were strong and his arms tapering. His chest was full and hairless—his stomach flat and firm. His sex was wreathed in dark, reddish-brown hair that curled with the natural abandon of a Greek statue's.

      His legs … here came the secret of Kenneth Gracey's joy in living. These legs of his—long, endowed with mighty sinews and an uncommon elasticity—they gave him that speed which had won him a place on the track team and the basket-ball team at Selma High. They had born him to the prized goal of success in athletics. Now, as in the flush of happy vitality he began to move rhythmically, first with arms, then with legs, he felt that urge toward a dance, a wild, naked dance of pagan ecstasy. He watched himself move, facile, swaying. His legs now arched in a sweeping kick, a pivoting thrust high above his head. He spun about, hearing an unheard rhythm in the quickening pulses of his heart.

      As he did so, Mr. Lowell entered the bathroom. Ken continued to dance. The old man watched him closely. Suddenly Ken stopped.

      "Oh, boy!" he cried gaily.

      "Happy?" Mr. Lowell asked.

      Ken turned.

      "There isn't anything else I want." He slipped into his dressing robe. "Thanks to you."

      "Dear boy," said Mr. Lowell, "I have given you nothing—yet."

      Chapter II

       Table of Contents

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      "I CALL this Star-ridge," Mr. Lowell said, "because here only I come, and the stars …"

      Velvet California nights, stars so bright that they seemed like lanterns hung in a velvet sky, fit canopy for the panorama spread before Ken and his patron.

      "This is my monastery," Mr. Lowell added. "Yours, too. There's nothing you can't do here. Swim, race, ride, play at games, music … and then there's the organ."

      They ascended stairs. Star-ridge clung to a side of Flintridge against the battlemented mountains. Above, Big Tijunga and Little Tijunga, Pickens Canyon and the Sierra Madres, with Mount Wilson towering against the moonlit background. Below, a carpet of lights, the deep cleft of the Arroyo and Devil's Gap. Everything was as fantastic as the journey through the desert to this castle of Star-ridge. They left the garden with its overpoweringly sweet scent of orange blossoms and entered.

      "It isn't real, Mr. Lowell," Ken said.

      The organ rose to the top of the house. The old man sat before the manuals and began to play.

      "My fingers are stiff," he apologized. Then, as the reeds roared: "This is by Johann Sebastian Bach, greatest of all composers." The pedal notes thundered, the trumpets pealed, the earth shook. Little by little the consummate majesty of the music died. Angels' voices swooningly sang a dulcet melody. Ken held his breath in awe.

      ​"You play mighty fine, Mr. Lowell," he said.

      Mr. Lowell swung about. "Ken, you are at home. Come, I'll show you your room."

      The bedrooms were below. Ken entered his room. "Elsie De Wolfe designed his," said Mr. Lowell, "cream and green … a touch of garden between walls. The bed is better than mine. Sit down, dear boy."

      Kenneth noticed that his other suit was already hanging in the wardrobe, placed there by the butler. He sat facing Mr. Lowell, who watched him for a moment, then took his hand and held it.

      "You are going to be splendid, Kenneth," he said. "This is a beginning. Tomorrow a tutor, a tailor, a career."

      "A career?"

      "Yes. You are not here only because I prefer to have you here. You must work, study, rise. Do you want to go to school?"

      "Perhaps." Kenneth noticed scented incense rising from a curiously carved ivory burner. The very air was laden with perfume.

      "Tomorrow," said Mr. Lowell, "I must go north to inspect some of my property. When I return, you will tell me what you want to do."

      "How long will you be gone?"

      "A few days." A smile flitted across the lips of the old man. "You will miss me?"

      "Yes."

      "I like to hear that. Tell me … do you miss your father?"

      Ken had not thought of his father—not even of Uncle Joe—since he had arrived in Pasadena. Now his face was ​darkened by fear that his father would worry about him. What should he do? Telephone? Wire?

      "Do nothing, dear boy," Mr. Lowell advised. "Forget him. That sentimental attachment you feel for him now will soon pass. He is not worthy of you."

      Ken's protest at this slur upon his father was written upon his face.

      "Your father did not understand you. I do."

      "I know," said Ken.

      "Unfortunately, your father can never understand you. He is a little Texas lawyer. You are to be a man of the world.

      "Tonight, we shall go down into the city. I shall show you Los Angeles and Hollywood, Beverly Hills and the sea. Have you ever seen the sea?"

      "No," Ken replied.

      He wanted to ask Mr. Lowell if Los Angeles, Hollywood, Beverly Hills and the sea all belonged to him. But this he did not do. He accompanied the old man to the patio where a limousine awaited them.

      They were driven down through Chevy Chase to a city of colored lights.

      "Like you, I was born on flat prairie," Mr. Lowell told Ken. "Our homeland is a dreary one … no variety … no depth. That is why I choose now to live in beauty. Here in Southern California is beauty; in New York, in Palm Beach, in Paris. We Americans of the Middle West and South are bitten by the monotonous ugliness of our country. We are stern uncompromising people who are born, live and die with little beauty. We are responsible for hatred, rancor, bitterness. We fill the world with narrow shallow thoughts. I am not entirely pleased with these ​California cities. They are, for the most part, ugly imitations … petty and unworthy of this glamorous land. Here and there are lovely natural spots … the hills, the sea."

      They entered Hollywood. On the Boulevard were handsome youths and pretty girls.

      "I wish I might spend these next few days with you. I should like to teach you what to do and what not to do."

      The car entered a driveway and halted before a porte-cochère. A doorman greeted Mr. Lowell.

      Within, an old-fashioned mansion, diners in evening dress, a long bar, before which sat elegant women and smart men. Ken thought he recognized movie stars in the crowd. He was too enthralled to speak.

      Mr. Lowell stood beside him and ordered two side-cars. Ken, accustomed only to sharp, undiluted grain alcohol served in syrups, drank the blend of brandy and Cointreau with a single gulp.

      "Be careful," said Mr. Lowell. "That's a powerful drink."

      In cautiously chosen words, the old man pointed out the famous ones in the throng of drinkers: motion picture executives, directors, actors and actresses. He led Ken up winding stairs to the game room, where roulette, dice and black jack attracted groups of players.

      "This is the essence of cosmopolitan life in Southern California," said Mr. Lowell. "I seldom come here. These people are too busy thinking about money to interest me. I choose my friends differently. After you know me better, you will understand why."

      Again the limousine sped through palm-lined streets, along flower-banked roadsides. Suddenly a steep climb, then a steeper descent to the ocean level.

      ​Quiet