Читать книгу Butterfly Man - Lew Levenson - Страница 4

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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 blue-black water, 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.