Free Poor Butterfly by Stuart M. Kaminsky Page A

“What do you think?”
    “Mr. Ortiz painted those pictures,” the Reverend whispered back.
    “A man of many talents. Let’s get down to business,” I said.
    Mr. Ortiz took his lemonade and drank it down in two gulps.
    Souvaine leaned back and examined the backs of his hands before he spoke.
    “Gladly,” he said. “This nation was founded under God, trusting in God. It is part of our heritage. The principle of separation of Church and State is not possible. It is neither possible nor right. God does not forsake any part of his dominion. There are conflicting forces in our nation. There is a new burst of religious understanding. Do you know what the New York Times best-selling novels are this week?”
    “ Mother Finds a Baby by Gypsy Rose Lee and Love’s Lovely Counterfeit by James M. Cain,” I guessed.
    “ The Robe and The Song of Bernadette ,” Souvaine countered triumphantly. “This nation has not forsaken its Christian foundations.”
    I wasn’t sure that religious fervor accounted for the popularity of best-sellers, but Souvaine was into a sermon now, pacing the floor.
    “But you are right, too, Mr. Peters. There are godless books, godless candidates. The Japanese are a godless race. To allow the presentation of a play which sympathizes with a Japanese harlot and makes a Christian American naval officer seem heartless would be to play into the hands of the enemy. And let us be clear about this. Japan is not only the enemy of the United States but the enemy of our God—for God and the United States must remain inseparable.”
    “Whose God?” I asked.
    “There is but one true God,” he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a clean, ironed handkerchief to wipe his brow and palms.
    “You know who killed the plasterer?” I asked.
    Souvaine looked at me, disoriented.
    “Plasterer,” I repeated. “Or who tried to strangle Lorna Bartholomew this afternoon … or plant an ax in my chest?”
    “No.”
    “Might it have been God?” I tried, looking at Mr. Ortiz, who had put his lemonade glass back on the tray to give me his undivided attention.
    “God does not condone murder or violence except to protect the …” he began and then stopped. “I do not know who did such things. I am not at all sure that I believe such things have been done. It is my understanding that the plasterer fell.”
    “Maybe.” I said. “Have you got a live wire in the pews? Someone who might decide to give God a little help?”
    “No one,” Souvaine said, with righteous indignation. “None in my congregation.”
    “How about Mr. Ortiz?” I said, looking at the deacon. No reaction.
    “Absurd,” said Souvaine. “I’m afraid you see the righteousness of our cause and are—with Satan’s help, whether you know it or not—trying to discredit us. It shall not be, Mr. Peters. Know you that it shall not be.”
    “I think I’ll be going,” I said, getting up.
    Ortiz got up with me.
    “I think that would be best,” said Souvaine. “I’m sorry I have been unable to convince you of my sincerity. You receive the truth from me, Mr. Peters, more than you will receive from your Stokowski.”
    Souvaine moved to the desk and picked up a pad of paper with neat little letters on it. The pad had been waiting there for this moment.
    “Your Leopold Stokowski is a liar, a fornicator, and we mean to expose the rot in the belly of the beast,” he said without looking down at the pad. “He claims to have been born in Poland. He was not. He was born in England. That accent of his is a fraud. He invented it. He tells people that he is an expert violinist. He cannot play the instrument. He has committed adultery on numerous occasions and with both married and unmarried women, including Greta Garbo.”
    Souvaine threw the pad down on the table.
    “How say you to these charges?”
    “Reverend,” I said, moving toward the door. “Your sincerity’s not on the line here. Your beliefs, or the ones you’re selling, are. And