Butterfly Man. Lew Levenson

curving fingers of land. Along the wide beach, flickering fires.

      "We shall go to Malibu. I have a villa there," said Mr. Lowell.

      For a few minutes the car drove along the ocean highway, parallel to the beach. Then a sharp turn to the east, up and up to a hillcrest. There a low rambling Monterey cottage.

      Johnson's white teeth gleamed as he held open the limousine door. Within, Kari, the Japanese butler, silently pointed to the linen-topped table, ready for supper for two.

      Kari smiled mysteriously. Mr. Lowell patted the Japanese on the shoulder.

      "Lonely for me, Kari?"

      "Yes, Missee Lowell … lonesome like the sea."

      From the patio, Ken saw the wide peaceful ocean. Overhead, the bamboo screen was drawn back so as to admit the sham light of a metallic moon. A lantern swung from a rod, barely moving in a fitful breeze.

      "This is Malibu Canyon," said Mr. Lowell. "Here we are above and away from those we do not choose to know. My road is truly private … the next house is a mountain-top shack eleven miles away.

      "Here no one comes who is weak or insipid or uninteresting. Here come my choicest friends, those who are like you—sturdy—straightforward, fine."

      They stood against the patio wall and the older man's arm fell about Ken's shoulder.

      "Look into my eyes," Mr. Lowell said. From somewhere in the darkness came two glasses of sparkling champagne.

      "Drink," said Mr. Lowell.

      ​The brilliant bubbles charged the dry wine with vitality. Ken's head, cleared by the night ride, swam in the glowing stimulation of the champagne.

      "We are to be very happy together, you and I," said Mr. Lowell.

      Ken smiled honestly into Mr. Lowell's face. The gray beard's point curled slightly. The watery eyes shone. The arm dropped from Ken's shoulder. Mr. Lowell turned to the linen-covered table.

      "Caviar, truffles, wine—" he said as they sat down. "Here is magic, beauty and happiness."

      "I sure appreciate your interest, Mr. Lowell," said Ken.

      "That is not enough. What do you want to be?"

      "I don't know."

      "A doctor? A lawyer? An artist?"

      "An artist, maybe."

      "Paint?"

      "No, Mr. Lowell. Since we are here in Hollywood, why can't I learn to act?"

      "You can. You shall."

      "Or dance. I love to dance."

      "As I saw you dancing in the hotel the other night?"

      "Yes. I was very happy then."

      "And not happy now?"

      "I can't explain. This is all too much. I don't understand."

      "I know. I know exactly what is troubling you. You are fighting your old self. That is unnecessary. In America, one learns to fight one's self, to beat and abuse one's self, to defeat one's self. For what?"

      "I don't know."

      "For cruelty's sake. But this is my special country. Here ​we live in our own world. No ugliness. No deceit. Above all, no women. Do you understand?"

      "No, Mr. Lowell."

      "Well, then … Kari, pour wine." And as Kari poured: "Dear boy, in a few days you shall go to the finest dancing school in California. In the meantime, forgive an old fool for preaching at you. Come … drink."

      Whether because of the wine, the soft warmth, the penetrating voice of the old man, the strange deep bed, or because he was not tired, Ken could not sleep. He tossed. He turned and twisted. He threw his covers aside. He lay naked.

      The night moved silently on. His confused thoughts tried vainly to flee from this unreal California back to the substance of home. He must think of something comfortable, friendly, secure. He must think of Texas, of long, straight roads on wide prairie, cotton fields, corn fields, a homely town, folks.

      He must recall the big game. He must remember the way the team broke training … the hay-ride down to Wall's Creek, the alkie that tasted raw like fire after so long a period of abstinence.

      He must remember Hazel Greene, who sat next to him in the hay. She was a cute thing, round and roly-poly. He was drunk. She was drunk. They began to tickle each other, drunk-like. His head was large as a pumpkin, his eyes glassy, when she did that curious thing.

      He felt the cleverness of it, the perfected rhythm, the knowing pulse. He wondered how and why she knew so much, little Hazel being only sixteen.

      ​And drunk as he was, it made him a little ill. Like smelling sulphur. Like tasting cold fried mush.

      And yet, in retrospect, there was a moment, a long, hesitating moment when he remembered nothing.

      This moment was then, and now was now.

      Only now it was black as only black can be and a shadow fell into the blackness, a shadow vague, yet like Mr. Lowell, a very silent, a very far away shadow, so negative, so delicately negative that, in the morning, Ken did not know whether he had had a very beautiful dream.

      Chapter III

       Table of Contents

      ​

      WHEN Ken awoke, Mr. Lowell had already departed. It was long past noon, the western sun was already slanting into the bedroom, with its plaster monk enshrined in a niche opposite Ken's bed. The monk regarded his own round belly with suitable piety and Ken mused upon the strange difference between his own life of this day to come and his past life.

      For he was quiet, composed, rested. The long night was gone. This day was to begin his career.

      Kari it was who informed him that "Missee Lowell he is gone away, with suitable orders to you." These orders included a rub-down and massage, far more soothing than any Ken had received from "Bones" Trotter, the Selma High trainer. When Kari was through with him, in accordance with Mr. Lowell's instructions, a certain Seward Pawne appeared, announced himself as the assistant to Mr. Lowell's private secretary and explained that Ken was to visit Marchiotti, the tailor.

      Mr. Pawne was English, exceedingly self-effacing, with a round, pudgy expression of contentment and a deferential attitude.

      "Mr. Lowell is very thorough-going," he said. "He has told me exactly how to entertain you during his absence."

      And thus Ken saw Southern California. Long rides into the mountains, Johnson at the wheel. Horseback up ​bridle-paths back of Flintridge, an evening in the Pasadena Theatre, dinner in Los Angeles at Victor Hugo's.

      Mr. Pawne carefully assisted Ken in correcting his pronunciation. Ken discovered new words and old words said in a new way. He learned details of etiquette, the correct manner of entering a theatre, how to order a course dinner, what to wear, especially what to wear.

      Marchiotti, swarthy, with warm Italian eyes that gleamed as he measured Ken, created sack suits, morning and evening dress, sport costumes, a riding habit, overcoats, even an aviator's jacket and hood.

      On the day on which his wardrobe was complete, Ken received a visit from Mr. Pawne.

      "Is everything satisfactory, Mr. Gracey?" he asked.

      "Oh yes," Ken replied. "But when does Mr. Lowell return?"

      "That's hard to say. And I do suppose you are a trifle bored."

      "I'd like to be doing something. This is swell, living like this, fixed up in this outfit too, but I really haven't got anything to do."

      "Mr. Lowell did say to take you to the school of Terpsichore,