Butterfly Man. Lew Levenson

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      Chapter III

       Table of Contents

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      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, Mr. Gracey, that is, if you cared to study dancing," Mr. Pawne remarked.

      To Ken's query, Mr. Pawne explained that Buddy Nolan taught dancing on Sunset Boulevard in Hollywood. He was the very best teacher in the city, said Mr. Pawne.

      "And may I drive a car there, myself?" asked Ken. "Certainly. You may use the Rolls roadster."

      With Mr. Pawne at his side, Ken drove the high old Rolls-Royce down to Hollywood. The School of ​Terpsichore occupied a Grecian temple on the Boulevard. The Muse, in person, adorned the portal. She was weather-beaten but still graceful.

      Buddy Nolan interrupted a class to greet Mr. Pawne and to show Mr. Gracey his establishment. The School of Terpsichore supplied many dancers to the movies and the theatre. Neophytes in practise clothes, boys in shorts, girls in trim bathing suits, stretched and rolled and bent their bodies earnestly.

      "Will this do, Mr. Gracey?" Mr. Pawne whispered, as the tour of the school ended.

      "It's great!" Ken cried. "I'll stay here today."

      A day at Buddy Nolan's ripped away the veil from Ken's mind. He felt alert, alive for the first time since arriving in California. These languid semi-tropic days and moist nights, the rich food, the luxury in which he lived had deadened the nervous resilience which had characterized his activities back home in Selma. Now that he danced, the crafty face of Mr. Lowell vanished temporarily from his memory. The cajoling voice, the unctuous manner, that mystifying wizardry, compound of wealth and sinister devotion, was withdrawn as if it had never been.

      At the conclusion of Ken's first class, Buddy Nolan sent for him.

      "You're marvelous," beamed the dancing teacher. "My dear, you are marvelous. I have never had such a beginner since I opened the school. You already possess a definite style. You are as graceful as a woman."

      Nolan was tiny, frail, with a light, shrill voice. He dressed in slacks and smoked incessantly. On his ring finger was a huge moonstone, which he rubbed from time to time against his cheek. "My boy," he continued, "we ​are going to be fast friends. I don't care if you are La Lowell's protégé, I am going to make you mine … in the dance, of course."

      For three days the wine of youth coursed through Ken's veins. He practised until his muscles stretched taut over weary bones. His long legs swung high again and again over his head. Buddy Nolan helped him personally to acquire a back kick. In experimenting with this step, Buddy stumbled upon a side-kick, a natural graceful swooping movement, which he enthusiastically hailed as a novelty greater than any he had created.

      The other students of the School of Terpsichore marvelled at Ken's ease. He liked them for their frank admission that he would surely excel them all upon the stage. Yet he was shy and did not join them in their gossip nor in their frequent walks to the corner drug store for sodas and alkies mixed with Coca Cola. A pert little girl, who identified herself as Anita Rogers, "unattached and willing to stay so," challenged him with the taunt "high hat"; but he only smiled at her as she pouted and turned away.

      He enjoyed his hours of freedom greatly. The blue Rolls purred easily through highways and boulevards. It took Ken from mountain to ocean, from Beverly Hills to Hollywood, where, in daytime, the papier-mâché quality of the city's homes and business buildings made life itself seem cheap, gaudy and gay.

      Ken was tempted to park the Rolls and to roam through the movie city, which lay restless beneath white sunshine at the foot of the endlessly varied hills. But the car and the city were not his to play with. He drove hurriedly on, as if fleeing through a dream.

      ​Star-ridge, like Hollywood, was unreal. Mr. Pawne became an incredible character, a pottering nuisance; Kari's innumerable attentions and his pidgeon English fluttered annoyingly about. СКАЧАТЬ