The Butterfly Plague

THE BUTTERFLY PLAGUE

Timothy Findley

First published by

The Viking Press, Inc.

1969

First published in 1969, The Butterfly Plague is Timothy Findley’s second novel, available for the first time in many years, revised and with an introduction by the author.

It is Hollywood 1938. A great star is planning a stunning comeback, while another is bent on self-destruction. And, as dark clouds hang ominously over Europe, hordes of Monarch butterflies swarm beautifully but menacingly over Hollywood.

Against a colorful background of butterflies and beaches, Timothy Findley skillfully phases reality into nightmare, exploring mothers’ relationships to sons, women’s relationships to men, beauty’s relationship to evil. In the rich hues of his kaleidoscopic prose, he blends biting humor with brilliant perceptions of the levels of despair—and a high degree of compassion.

“One of the best books ever written about Hollywood.”

—Rex Reed

“Funny, colorful, brilliant-you won’t be able to put it down.”

—
Cosmopolitan

“Timothy Findley is one of Canada’s most original and important writers…He deserves sustained and enthusiastic applause.”

—
Toronto Star

THE BUTTERFLY PLAGUE

Timothy Findley was born in Toronto and now lives in the country nearby. His novel
The Wars
was a winner of the Governor General’s Literary Award and the City of Toronto Book Award, establishing him as one of Canada’s leading writers. The book was acclaimed throughout the English-speaking world and has already appeared in eight translated editions. Findley wrote the screenplay for the film
The Wars
, directed by Robin Phillips.
Famous Last Words
, his best-selling novel of gripping international intrigue, was published in 1981 to rave reviews, and in 1983 Penguin reissued
The Last of the Crazy People
, his brilliant first novel. In 1984, his first short-story collection,
Dinner Along the Amazon
, appeared in Penguin, followed by his critically acclaimed novel
Not Wanted on the Voyage
.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Poem from
O The Chimneys
by Nelly Sachs reprinted by permission of Farrar, Straus and Giroux, Inc. Copyright© 1967 by Farrar, Straus & Giroux Inc. Also from
Selected Poems
by Nelly Sachs, translated by Ruth and Matthew Mead, reprinted by permission of Jonathan Cape Ltd.

Lyrics from “The Way You Look Tonight,” used by permission of T.B. Harms Company. Copyright© 1936 by T.B. Harms Company. Copyright renewed.

The chapter “Chronicle of the Nightmare” appeared in
Esquire
.

For: Sheila Keddy Arnold

Janet Baldwin

Grace Bechtold

Beverley Roberts

Ear of mankind

overgrown with nettles

would you hear?

If the voice of the prophets blew

on flutes made of murdered children’s bones—

and exhaled airs burnt with

martyrs’ cries—

if they built a bridge of old men’s dying

groans—

Ear of mankind

occupied with small sounds

would you hear?

—NELLY SACHS,

poem published in
O the Chimneys

Preface

This book may well be unique: that is to say, as books go, its experience of getting written may well be unique. Consider when it was begun. 1968. It then ran through a couple of drafts—maybe three, all told—and it was published in 1969. I wrote a good deal faster then. I was younger (I guess)—less experienced (definitely)—and less afraid of what I put on the page (absolutely).

So now we come to draft four: seventeen years later, if you start counting from the moment the pencil first hit the page—sixteen years, if you start counting from the moment the book had covers. That is a long time between drafts and, because it was such a long time between drafts, I had to think very seriously whether I really wanted this final draft at all. Some of my friends said: “Findley—you’re a fool. A book is a book—and what is done is done. Leave it alone and go on to something else.” Others of my friends said: “Here is a golden opportunity: one that will never come again. All those dreadful mistakes you made the first time around can now be rectified!” (You will note that the first group of friends did not employ exclamation points. You will also note they had the good grace not to use phrases such as “all those dreadful mistakes you made.”) Lastly, there was that other—perhaps inevitable—group of friends, whose opinion of the whole affair was:
frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn
.

As for my own opinion, I tend to think that if you’re going to leave a book on the shelf, you had better do all you can to leave it there in the best rendition of which you are capable. In a nutshell, that is why I have undertaken this new edition. The first edition simply wasn’t good enough. And, I must add, it isn’t every publisher who will afford a writer the chance and the privilege of trying again.

The subject of whether or not to re-write a book after such a long time is not exactly a moot point. In fact, it is anything but a moot point because, if there is any doubt about whether or not you will do your best—or at least attempt to do your best—then you haven’t any right to call yourself a craftsman. Not to make a thing “right,” when you can, is to renege on what you’re about: it is to turn your back on what you do—and furthermore, to say
to hell with it
as you walk away.

Some things are done by instinct. This is how we know an actor is an actor—that a dancer is a dancer—and a violinist a violinist. From the very moment these people step onto a stage, or take their place at the barre, or pick up a violin, their instincts are right. It simply cannot be denied. Years and years ago (at the age of twelve), I had the exhilarating—not to say awesome—experience of walking onto a stage and realizing I had found, for the first time, where I could live: where I could function: where something profoundly different than anything else that had ever happened to me before could happen. And not only that, I could
make it happen
. I hadn’t any fear. I wasn’t alarmed when the curtain went up—and, when it came down, I only wanted it to rise again. Lord, what a wonderful feeling that was!

And then it all came crashing down around my ears. This didn’t happen right away. That first experience had been at school and “the crash” didn’t come until I was out in the real world walking on a real stage playing a real part in a real play. It was my first professional job—in stock—and, as with all stock companies, we were playing a new play every week. The “crash” occurred about halfway through the season when, one night, I was right in the middle of a scene and, all at once, I was completely overcome with stage-fright. My voice died. I couldn’t move. I didn’t know who or where or what I was supposed to be. I didn’t know which play it was—and the costumes didn’t help, because the costumes in stock are always the same. One week you wear your blue suit—the next week, your grey suit. And the sets never change: you are always standing in someone’s living room. All the other actors on the stage were strangers—some in blue suits, some in grey. And every woman (except the maid) was in evening dress. Every gesture—all the drinks being passed on trays—all the teacups rattling in their saucers—every word being said was utterly meaningless. I was hopelessly, totally lost.

The point of this story is simple—and it does have to do with writing—and, specifically, it has to do with the writing of this book and with why, after sixteen—seventeen years, I have finally come to write its final draft.

All the “natural” talent in the world wasn’t going to save me in my dilemma on that stage. The only thing that would save me would be craft, technique. And I had none. But from that moment on, I made it my business to learn my business because I realized that without the craft to carry me past panic and without the technique to help me repeat each performance as if it were the first, then I was not an actor. Certainly, I was no
pro
.

Imagine, now, the neophyte writer who sat down to make
The Butterfly Plague
. He had ten thousand ideas and a million theories and he kind of wrote like that, too, in tens of thousands and millions. Every paragraph was twice as long as it needed to be. The characters, not unlike the butterflies, arrived on the pages in droves. The events were about as large as events could get: there were murders, flaming forests, movie making, the Olympic Games and—not to be outdone by a number of other writers writing then—I threw in World War II.

I wouldn’t re-write every book. In fact, I expect
The Butterfly Plague
will be the only book I tackle more than once. But it suffered, you see, from that same dreadful moment—in the earlier version—of being written by a man who was suddenly overcome with stagefright. (Or should I say
pagefright
!) It was a good idea, but its time had not come. Or rather, its writer had not made sure of his craft. He simply wrote it too soon.

In its first incarnation, this book was dedicated to four good friends, whose names are on the dedication page. But to their names I must now add another, for very special reasons. Redoing this book—so long out of print—was initially the idea of a man for whom my admiration and gratitude are unbounded. Consequently, this edition of
The Butterfly Plague
is dedicated with affectionate greetings to Dr. W.H. Clarke.

T.F., 1986

Book One

The First Chronicle

Sunday, August 28th, 1938:

Culver City Railroad Station

2:05 p.m.

“Mickey Balloon! Mickey Balloon, come down!”

A little boy, aged four, stood screaming on the verge of the platform.

“He got away!”

The child-owner of Mickey Balloon stamped his pretty feet, encased in patent-leather shoes, and jumped up and down.

Mickey Balloon’s string hung tantalizingly close, but just as soon as the child leaped near it, up it bobbled and away it jiggled.

“Oh, Mickey Balloon—Oh—Mickey Balloon! Come back!”

But Mickey Balloon was going his merry way.

Up, up he soared, further and further into the blue, blue sky. Mickey Balloon had places to go and things to see.

The crowd on the platform cheered and waved.

Mickey Balloon made a tack to the right. He passed so close to the telephone poles that it seemed, for one crowd-gasping moment, he might be going to prick himself on the little brass wires that were fraying there and then he would burst into a hundred thousand pieces, splattering himself and all his rubber features—his black-and-white painted eyes, his grinning Mickey-mouth and his great big sticking-out ears far and wide; so far and wide that all the members of the Hollywood Extras’ World War Band and all the Boy Scouts of America and all the assembled members of the Norma Jean Norman Fan Club, Glendale Division, and all the hawkers and drummers, the flag wavers, the peanut vendors and all the sellers of balloons who had gathered there to meet the train, could never put Mickey together again. But they didn’t have to.

Mickey Ballooned even higher now—higher and wider, floating and jerking, mingling with the birds and the soot and all the things that float and jerk and spend their lives in the air—the moths and the flies, the bees and the hornets, the dragonflies, the pieces of wood ash—and the butterflies.

Far down below him half the whole world had dressed itself up in stripes and polka dots, blazers and Panama hats. The other half had put on pink pajamas and orange scarves and dyed its hair a deep golden red. And once everybody in the whole world had dressed up in this fashion, one way or the other, they had all said, “Let’s go down to the Culver City Railroad Station and cheer in the Santa Fe Super Chief. That will be exciting. Swell! We will see that new movie star, Norma Jean Norman, and we will see each other. Whee!” So there they all were, jammed on the tiny wharves of platform, pushing-and-yelling, screaming-and-jumping and losing their balloons.

Mickey Balloon just adored it. He diddled and bobbled, careened and pharoomed and smiled.

There was the parking lot. There were all the cars. Big black cars. Little blue cars. Red roadsters. Green coupes—and one purple Franklin with a rumble seat. It was just too delightful, and Mickey Balloon gave a great wide swoop and came down close to the purple rumble-seated car and spied on its occupants. There was a lady in the front seat, and she wore a tangerine-and-pink patterned dress with great big puff-up sleeves, an orange garden hat and a cigarette and sunglasses shaped like little twin hearts. And there was another person, too, supported on many white pillows, dressed in blue, and sitting very high up in the rumble seat, and these two people were surrounded by a crowd.

But for Mickey Balloon there was no time to stand around in the middle of the air, looking at such things. He had to make his journey and see what else there was to see. So, up he went. Up, up, and then something terrible happened.

Mickey Balloon was assassinated.

By, of all people, a child with a BB gun.

Standing in the window across the way, the child took perfect aim and fired.