Poor Butterfly (23 page)

“Cats,” she said.

“Cats,” I agreed and opened the envelope. The paper inside was red with green lettering which said:

I cannot understand why man should be capable of so little fantasy. I do not understand why, when I ask for a grilled lobster in a restaurant, I am never sewed a cooked telephone; I do not understand why champagne is always chilled, and why on the other hand telephones, which are habitually so frightfully warm and disagreeably sticky to the touch, are not also put in siluer buckets with crushed ice around them. Please try to locate a telephone which does not offend you and call me at the number below. I am in need of your services
.

There was a phone number and a signature.

“Who’s it from?” asked Mrs. Plaut.

“Salvador Dali,” I said.

“The king of Tibet!” she said with awe.

I closed my eyes and went to sleep.

THE END