Poor Butterfly Read Online Free
Author: Stuart M. Kaminsky
birthdays.”
“Mrs. Plaut” I said, letting Dash move in ahead of me. “Mister Wherthman and I gave you a new Aivin radio with headphones for your birthday.” Mrs. Plaut’s date of birth varied with her moods and memory. She had at least two birthdays each year, one in the spring and one at random times in the fall or winter. Her most recent birthday had been November 14, which, coincidentally, is my birthday.
“Be that as it may be. You will please take my recently finished chapter and place it in my hands upon your return with beneficial comments and criticism,” she said. “That will be your part of the bargain.”
I wasn’t sure what her part of the bargain was, but I nodded in agreement. I hurried up the stairs and moved past the room of Mr. Hill the postman, past my own room, to the room of Gunther Wherthman.
Gunther is a little person, three feet of Swiss dignity. He is my best friend. I knocked. No answer. Gunther usually worked in his room, translating a variety of languages into English. Dash and I went into my room. It wasn’t much but I liked it. I had a hot plate in the corner, a sink, a small refrigerator, some dishes, a table and three chairs, a rug, a bed with a purple blanket made by Mrs. Plaut that said G OD B LESS U S E VERY O NE in pink stitching, and a sofa with little doilies on the arms that I was afraid to touch. On my wall was a Beech-Nut Gum wall clock that was never more than five minutes off.
I wrote a note to Gunther telling him I was going and asking him to take care of Dash and wind the clock. I knew Gunther wouldn’t mind. Dash reminded him of a cat he’d had as a kid in Bern.
I packed what I had clean, which wasn’t much. My one suit was slightly crumpled and not too dirty. I had a white shirt I’d only worn twice since the last washing, and three ties, all dark, one with a scorch mark on it that might be taken for a Scottish crest by a drunk.
I gave Dash some water. Gunther had told me not to give Dash milk. Milk, he said, was bad for cats. Gunther was usually right. I supposed it was some truth known only to Swiss midgets. I don’t know what milk does to people, but I had enough left in the refrigerator for a bowl of cereal. I pulled out what was left of my Kellogg’s Variety Package. It was a toss-up between Pep and Krumbles. I took the Krumbles.
I considered getting the mattress off the floor and back on the bed. I can’t sleep in a real bed. Too soft. Bad back. I asked Dash’s advice. He had none. I pulled the mattress up on the bed and checked the clock on the wall. It was getting late.
On my way out, I gave Mrs. Plaut my sugar stamps and she gave me her manuscript chapter, reminding me to guard it with my life.
“The chapter deals with my Cousin Pyle and his ilk,” she said. “Therefore, it is especially precious.”
She also warned me about loose women, cold weather, and something that sounded like “Crolly Beans.”
The sun came through the clouds low on the horizon as I hit Sunset and headed for the highway and San Francisco.
3
E ven 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
“Mrs. Plaut” I said, letting Dash move in ahead of me. “Mister Wherthman and I gave you a new Aivin radio with headphones for your birthday.” Mrs. Plaut’s date of birth varied with her moods and memory. She had at least two birthdays each year, one in the spring and one at random times in the fall or winter. Her most recent birthday had been November 14, which, coincidentally, is my birthday.
“Be that as it may be. You will please take my recently finished chapter and place it in my hands upon your return with beneficial comments and criticism,” she said. “That will be your part of the bargain.”
I wasn’t sure what her part of the bargain was, but I nodded in agreement. I hurried up the stairs and moved past the room of Mr. Hill the postman, past my own room, to the room of Gunther Wherthman.
Gunther is a little person, three feet of Swiss dignity. He is my best friend. I knocked. No answer. Gunther usually worked in his room, translating a variety of languages into English. Dash and I went into my room. It wasn’t much but I liked it. I had a hot plate in the corner, a sink, a small refrigerator, some dishes, a table and three chairs, a rug, a bed with a purple blanket made by Mrs. Plaut that said G OD B LESS U S E VERY O NE in pink stitching, and a sofa with little doilies on the arms that I was afraid to touch. On my wall was a Beech-Nut Gum wall clock that was never more than five minutes off.
I wrote a note to Gunther telling him I was going and asking him to take care of Dash and wind the clock. I knew Gunther wouldn’t mind. Dash reminded him of a cat he’d had as a kid in Bern.
I packed what I had clean, which wasn’t much. My one suit was slightly crumpled and not too dirty. I had a white shirt I’d only worn twice since the last washing, and three ties, all dark, one with a scorch mark on it that might be taken for a Scottish crest by a drunk.
I gave Dash some water. Gunther had told me not to give Dash milk. Milk, he said, was bad for cats. Gunther was usually right. I supposed it was some truth known only to Swiss midgets. I don’t know what milk does to people, but I had enough left in the refrigerator for a bowl of cereal. I pulled out what was left of my Kellogg’s Variety Package. It was a toss-up between Pep and Krumbles. I took the Krumbles.
I considered getting the mattress off the floor and back on the bed. I can’t sleep in a real bed. Too soft. Bad back. I asked Dash’s advice. He had none. I pulled the mattress up on the bed and checked the clock on the wall. It was getting late.
On my way out, I gave Mrs. Plaut my sugar stamps and she gave me her manuscript chapter, reminding me to guard it with my life.
“The chapter deals with my Cousin Pyle and his ilk,” she said. “Therefore, it is especially precious.”
She also warned me about loose women, cold weather, and something that sounded like “Crolly Beans.”
The sun came through the clouds low on the horizon as I hit Sunset and headed for the highway and San Francisco.
3
E ven 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
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