Poor Butterfly Read Online Free Page B

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.”
    “The job,” I repeated as he opened the door.
    “Since you are the Maestro’s idea, albeit a welcome one,” he said, “I prefer that he explain.”
    I stepped into a theater that did more than hold its own with the rest of the building. The theater wasn’t lit, but the stage to our left was. The light from the stage was enough to show a thousand or more seats and a balcony. There were even box seats set back above us. And one massive glass chandelier, catching what it could of the light, hung high above the seats.
    On the stage were two people. One was a white-haired man about sixty in gray slacks and a long-sleeved gray pullover shirt. The sleeves were rolled up. He was talking to the second person, a woman who, for a second or two, looked like Anne. The body was similar—full, dark. The hair, too, was dark and full with—at this distance—a touch of red from the lights. She was wearing a blue dress with a big shiny black leather belt.
    The man’s fingers were dancing and the woman’s head was nodding, her eyes fixed on him. An orchestra sat silently in the