Mildred Pierce (35 page)

But the broadcasts continued, and Mildred’s feeling of being left out in the cold increased, until it became intolerable. Veda didn’t appear again on the Snack-O-Ham programme. To Mildred’s astonishment, her regular spot on the air was Wednesdays, at 3.15, as part of the Treviso Hour, offered by star pupils of the same Carlo Treviso who had once closed the piano so summarily over her knuckles. And then, after listening to two of these broadcasts, and drinking in Veda’s singing and everything the announcer said about her, Mildred had an idea. By making use of Mr Treviso, she could compel Veda to call her on the phone, to thank her for favours rendered. After that, pride would be satisfied and almost anything might happen.

So presently she was in the same old anteroom, with the same old vocalising going on inside, and her temper growing hotter and hotter. But when Mr Treviso finally received her, she had herself under what she thought was perfect control. As he gave no sign of recognition, she recalled herself to him, and he looked at her sharply, then bowed, but otherwise made no comment. She then made her little speech, which sounded stiff, and no doubt was supposed to sound stiff. ‘Mr Treviso, I’ve come on a matter that I shall have to ask you to keep confidential, and when I tell you the reason, I’m sure you’ll be only too glad to do so. My daughter Veda, I believe, is now taking lessons from you. Now for reasons best known to herself, she prefers to have nothing to do with me at the moment, and far be it from me to intrude on her life, or press her for explanations. Just the same, I have a duty toward her, with regard to the expenses of her musical education. It was I, Mr Treviso, who was responsible for her studying music in a serious way, and even though she elects to live apart from me, I still feel that her music is my responsibility, and in the future, without saying anything to her, without saying one word to her, Mr Treviso, I’d like you to send your bills to me, and not to her. I hope you don’t find my request unreasonable.’

Mr Treviso had seated himself, and listened with his death-mask smile, and for some moments he studied his finger-nails attentively. Then he stood up. ‘Am ver’ sorry, Madame, but dees is subject w’ich I cannot discuss wit’ you.’

‘Well, I’m very sorry too, Mr Treviso, but I’m afraid you’ll have to discuss it with me. Veda is my daughter, and—’

‘Madame, you excuse me, ’ave engagement.’

With quick strides, he crossed to the door, and opened it as though Mildred were the queen of Naples. Nothing happened. Mildred sat there, and crossed her still shapely legs in a way that said plainly she had no intention of going until she had finished her business. He frowned, looked at his watch. ‘Yes, himportant engagement. You excuse me? Please.’

He went out, then, and Mildred was left alone. After a few minutes, the little fat woman came in, found a piece of music, sat down at the piano, and began to play it. She played it loud,
and then played it again, and again, and each time she played it was louder and still louder. That went on perhaps half an hour, and Mildred still sat there. Then Mr Treviso came back and motioned the little fat woman out of the room. He strode up and down for a few minutes, frowning hard, then went over and closed the door. Then he sat down near Mildred, and touched her knee with a long, bony forefinger. ‘Why you want dees girl back? Tell me that?’

‘Mr Treviso, you mistake my motives. I—’

‘No mistake, no mistake at all. I tell Veda, well you pretty lucky, kid, somebody else pay a bill now. And she, she got no idea at all, hey? Don’t know who to call up, say thanks, sure is swell, how you like to see me again, hey?’

‘Well, that wasn’t my idea, Mr Treviso, but I’m sure, if Veda did happen to guess who was paying the bill, and called up about it, I could find it in my heart to—’

‘Listen, you. I tell you one t’ing. Is make no difference to me who pay. But I say to you: you want to ’ear dees girl sing, you buy a ticket. You pay a buck. You pay two bucks. If a ticket cost eight eighty, OK you pay eight eighty, but don’t you try to ’ear dees girl free. Because maybe cost you more than a whole Metropolitan Grand Opera is wort’.’

‘This is not a question of money.’

‘No by God, sure is not. You go to a zoo, hey? See little snake? Is come from India, is all red, yellow, black, ver’ pretty little snake. You take ’ome, hey? Make little pet, like puppy dog? No – you got more sense. I tell you, is same wit’ dees Veda. You buy ticket, you look at a little snake, but you no take home. No.’

‘Are you insinuating that my daughter is a snake?’

‘No – is a coloratura soprano, is much worse. A little snake, love mamma, do what papa tells, maybe, but a coloratura soprano, love nobody but own goddam self. Is son-bitch-bast’, worse than all a snake in a world. Madame, you leave dees girl alone.’

As Mildred sat blinking, trying to get adjusted to the wholly unexpected turn the interview had taken, Mr Treviso took another turn around the room, then apparently became more interested in his subject than he had intended. He sat down now,
his eyes shining with that Latin glare that had so upset her on her first visit. Tapping her knee again, he said: ‘Dees girl, she is coloratura, inside, outside, all over.’

‘What is a coloratura soprano?’

‘Madame, is special fancy breed, like blue Persian cat. Come once in a lifetime, sing all a trill, a staccato ha-ha-ha, a cadenza, a tough stuff—’

‘Oh, now I understand.’

‘Cos like ’ell. If is
real
coloratura, bring more dough to a grand opera house than big wop tenor. And dees girl, is coloratura, even a bones is coloratura. First, must know all a rich pipple. No rich, no good.’

‘She always associated with nice people.’

‘Nice maybe, but must be rich. All coloratura, they got, ’ow you say? – da
gimmies
. Always take, never give. OK, you spend plenty money on dees girl, what she do for you?’

‘She’s a mere child. She can’t be expected to—’

‘So – she do nothing for you. Look.’

Mr Treviso tapped Mildred’s knee again, grinned. ‘She even twiddle la valiere. All a coloratura, sit back like a duchess, twiddle a la valiere.’ And he gave a startling imitation of Veda, sitting haughtily erect in her chair, twiddling the ornament of her neck chain.

‘She’s done that since she was a little girl!’

‘Yes – is a funny part.’

Warming up now, Mr Treviso went on: ‘All a coloratura crazy for rich pipple, all take no give, all act like a duchess, all twiddle a la valiere, all a same, every one. All borrow ten t’ousand bucks, go to Italy, study voice, never pay back a money, t’ink was all friendship. Sing in grand opera, marry a banker, get da money. Got da money, kick out a banker, marry a baron, get da title. ’Ave a sweetie on a side, guy she like to sleep wi’. Den all travel together, all over Europe, grand opera to grand opera, ’otel to ’otel – a baron, ’e travel in Compartment C, take care of dog. A banker, ’e travel in Compartment B, take care of luggage. A sweetie, ’e travel in Drawing Room A, take care of coloratura – all one big ’appy family. Den come a decoration from King of Belgium – first a command performance. Theatre de la Monnaie,
den a decoration. All coloratura ’ave decoration from King of Belgium, rest of a life twiddle a la valiere, talk about a decoration.’

‘Well – Los Angeles is some distance from Belgium—’

‘No, no distance. Dees girl, make you no mistake, is big stuff. You know what make a singer? Is first voice, second voice, t’ird voice – yes, all know dees gag. Was Rossini’s gag, but maybe even Rossini could be wrong. Must ’ave voice, yes. But is not what make a singer. Must ’ave music,
music
inside. Caruso, ’e could no read one note, but ’e have music in a soul, is come out ever’ note ’e sing. Must have rhythm, feel a beat of music before conductor raise a stick. And specially coloratura – wit’out rhythm, wit’out music, all dees ha-ha-ha is vocalise, notting more. OK, dees Veda. I work on dees girl one week. She sing full chest, sound very bad, sound like a man. I change to head tone, sound good, I ’tink, yes, ’ere is a voice. ’Ere is one voice in a million. Den I talk. I talk music, music, music. I tell where she go to learn a sight-read, where learn ’armonia, where learn piano. She laugh, say maybe I ’ave somet’ing she can read by sight. On piano is a Stabat Mater, is ’ard, is tricky, is Rossini, is come in on a second beat, sing against accompaniment t’row a singer all off. I say OK, ’ere is little t’ing you can read by sight. So I begin play Inflammatus, from a Rossini Stabat Mater. Madame, dees girl hit a G on a nose, read a whole Inflammatus by sight, step into a C like was not’ing at all – don’t miss one note. I jump up, I say Jesus Christus, where you come from? She laugh like ’ell. Ask is little ’armonia I want done maybe. Den tell about Charl’, and I remember her now. Madame, I spend two hours wit’ dees girl dees afternoon, and I find out she know more music than I know. Den I really look dees girl over. I see dees deep chest, dees big bosom, dees ’igh nose, dees big antrim sinus in front of a face. Den I know what I see. I see what come once in a lifetime only – a great coloratura. I go to work. I give one lesson a day, charge one a week. I bring dees girl along fast, fast. She learn in six mont’ what most singer learn in five year, seven year. Fast, fast, fast. I remember Malibran, was artist at fifteen. I remember Melba, was artist at sixteen. Dees girl, was born wit’ a music in a
soul, can go fast as I take. OK, you ’ear Snack-O-Ham programme?’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘A Polonaise from Mignon, is tough. She sing like Tetrazzini. Oh, no, Madame, is not far from Los Angeles to Belgium for dees girl. Is no good singer. Is great singer. OK, ask a pipple. Ask a pipple tuned in on a Snack-O-Ham.’

Mildred, who had listened to this eulogy as one might listen to soul-nourishing organ music, came to herself with a start, and murmured: ‘She’s a wonderful girl.’

‘No – is a wonderful singer.’

As she looked at him, hurt and puzzled, Mr Treviso stepped nearer to make his meaning clear. ‘Da girl is lousy. She is a bitch. Da singer – is not.’

This seemed to be all, and Mildred got up. ‘Well – we’re all entitled to our opinion, but I would like it, if you don’t mind, if you’d send your bills hereafter to me—’

‘No, Madame.’

‘Have you any
particular
objection?’

‘Yes, Madame. I no enjoy a snake bite. You come in ’ere, you try make me play little part, part in intrigue to get your daughter back—’

‘Mr Treviso, that is your surmise.’

‘Is no surmise. For last two weeks, ever since Snack-O-Ham broadcast, dees little bitch ’ave told me a poor dumb mother will try get ’er back, and a first t’ing she do is come in here, offer pay for singing lesson.’

‘She—’

‘Yes! Dees girl, she live for two t’ing. One is make a mother feel bad, odder is get back wit’ all a rich pipple she know one time in Pasadena. I tell you, is snake, is bitch, is coloratura. You want Veda back, you see Veda self. I ’ave not’ing to do wit’ dees intrigue. She ask me, I say you not ben ’ere at all – an’how, I no see.’

Mildred was so shaken up by Mr Treviso’s last revelation that she wasn’t capable of plans, schemes, or intrigues for the rest of that day. She felt as if she had been caught in some shameful act,
and drove herself with work so as not to think about it. But later that night, things began to sort themselves out into little piles. She found some consolation in the certitude that at least
Veda
wouldn’t know what she had done. And then, presently, she sat up in bed, hot excitement pulsing all through her. At last she knew, from that disclosure of Veda’s desire to get back with the rich Pasadena people, how she would get her, how she would make even a coloratura come grovelling, on her knees.

She would get Veda through Monty.

W
ithout making any special effort to do so, Mildred had kept track of Monty these last three years, had even had a glimpse of him once or twice, on her way back and forth to Laguna. He was exactly where she had left him: in the ancestral house, trying to sell it. The place, no more saleable, even in its palmiest days, than a white elephant, had a rundown look to it by now. The grass was yellow, from lack of water; across the lawn, in a bleary row, were half a dozen agents’ signs; the iron dogs looked rusty; and one of the pillars, out front, had evidently been hit by a truck, for there was a big chip out of it, with raw brick showing through. However, though she knew where to find him, Mildred didn’t communicate with Monty at once. She went to the bank, opened her safe-deposit box, and made an accurate list of her bonds. She looked at her balances, both checking and savings. She went to Bullock’s, bought a new dress, new hat, new shoes. The dress was simple, but it was dark blue, and she felt it slenderised her. The hat was big, dark and soft. She then called an agent, and without giving her name, got the latest asking price on the Beragon mansion.

All this took two or three days. Just how exact her plan was it would be hard to say. She was wholly feminine, and it seems to be part of the feminine mind that it can tack indefinitely upwind, each tack bearing off at a vague angle, and yet all bearing inexorably on the buoy. Perhaps she herself didn’t quite know how many tacks she would have to make to reach the buoy, which was Veda, not Monty. At any rate, she now sent him a
telegram, saying she wanted help in picking a house in Pasadena, and would he be good enough to call her around eight that night, ‘at the Pie Wagon’?

She was a little nervous that evening, but was as casual when Monty called as though there were no buoys in her life whatever. She explained chattily that she simply had to move soon, to live in some place that was more centrally located; that Pasadena would be most convenient, and would he be good enough to ride around with her, and let her get her bearing before she actually got around to picking out a house? He seemed a little puzzled, but said he would do what he could, and how about calling some agents, so they could ride around too, and show what they had? Agents, she said, were exactly what she wanted to avoid. She could see them any time. What she wanted was to get the feel of a town that he knew a great deal better than she did, perhaps peep at a few places, and get some idea where she wanted to live. Monty said he had no car at the moment, and could she pick him up? She said that was exactly what she wanted to do, and how about the next afternoon at three?