Mildred Pierce

  "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, O.K. 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-bitchbast', 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, cadenza, a tough stuff—"

  "Oh, now I understand."

  "Cost 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. O.K., 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 Ia 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 wit'. Den all travel together, all over Europe, grand opera to grand opera, '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—first a command performance, Theatre de Ia Monnaie, den a decoration. All coloratura 'ave decoration from King of Belgium, rest of a life twiddle a Ia 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 a music before conductor raise a stick. And specially coloratura—wit'out rhythm, wit'out music, all dees ha-haha is vocalize, not'ing more. O.K., dees Veeda. 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 t'ink, 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 Stab'at 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 O.K., 'ere is little t'ing you can read by sight. So I begin to play Infianunatus, from a Rossini Stabat Mater. Madame, dees girl hit a G on a nose, read a whole Infiammatus 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 Char!', and I remember her now. Madame, I spend two hours wit' dees girl dees afternoon, and find out she know more music than I know. Den I really look dees girl over. I see dees deep chest, deer 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. 0. K., you 'ear Snack-O-Ham program?"

  "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. 0. K., 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 if, 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 to 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-OHam broadcast, dees little bitch 'ave told me a poor dumb mother will try to 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 been 'ere at all—any'ow, 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.

  CHAPTER XV

  WITHOUT 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 run-down 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 slenderized 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 bearings 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, arid 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?

  She dressed with a great deal of care the next afternoon, and when she surveyed herself in the long mirror, it was with quite a little satisfaction. For the last few months, perhaps as a result of the woe that had weighted her down, she hadn't put on any more weight, and the special girdle certainly held her belly in quite nicely. The new dress had a smart, casual look to it, and was of a becoming length, so that enough of her legs showed, but not too much. The big hat gave her a slightly flirty, Merry Widow look. The shoes flattered her feet, and set off the whole costume with a bit of zip. She tried a silver fox fur, decided it was right, and wore it. In truth, although she didn't look quite as she imagined she did, she looked rather interesting. She looked like a successful woman of business, with the remains of a rather seductive figure, a face of little distinction but considerable authority, a credit to that curious world that had produced her, Southern California.

  It didn't suit her plans to have Tommy along, so she stepped into the car herself and was pleased at the expert way she handled it. She went zipping over the bridge to Pasadena, from the traffic circle down Orange Grove Avenue. When she got to the Beragon mansion, Monty was sitting on the steps waiting for her. She went roaring up the drive, stopped in front of him, said "Well!" and held out her hand. He took it, then jumped in beside her. Both were smiling, but a little pang shot through her at the change in him. He wore slacks, but they were cheap and unpressed. His bald spot was bigger; it had grown from the size of a quarter to the size of a big silver dollar. He was thin and lined, and had a brooding, hang-dog look that was very different from the jaunty air he had once had. As to how she looked, he made no comment, and indeed indulged in no personal talk of any kind, He said he wanted, her to see a place in the Oak Knoll section, quite decent, very reasonable. Would she care to drive over there? She said she'd love to.

  By the time they had looked at places in the Oak Knoll section, the Altadena section, and the South Pasadena section, and nothing quite suited her, he seemed a little irritated. From the glib way he quoted prices, she knew he had called up the agents, in spite of her telling him not to, and that he would get a little split if she bought. But she paid no attention, and around five headed for Orange Grove Avenue again, to bring him home. Rather curtly, he said good-bye, and got out, and started inside, and then, as a sort of afterthought, stood waiting for her to leave. Pensively, she sat at the wheel, looking at the house, and then she cut the motor, got out, and stood looking at it. Then she let a noisy sigh escape her, and said, "Beautiful, beautiful!"

  "It could be, with a little money spent on it."

  "Yes, that's what I mean. . . . What do they want for it, Monty?"

  For the first time that afternoon, Monty really looked at her. All the places he had taken her to had been quoted around $10,000: evidently it hadn't occurred to him she could possibly be interested in this formidable pile. He stared, then said: "Year before last, seventy-five flat—and it's worth every cent of it. Last year, fifty. This year, thirty, subject to a lien of thirty-one hundred for unpaid taxes—all together around thirty-three thousand dollars."

  Mildred's information was that it could be had for twentyeight and a half, plus the tax lien, and she noted ironically that he was a little better salesman than she had given him credit for. However, all she said was: "Beautiful, beautiful!" Then she went to the door, and peeped in.

  It had changed somewhat since her last visit, that night in the rain. All the futniture, all the paintings, all the rugs, all the dust cloths, were gone, and in places the paper hung down in long strips. When she tiptoed inside, her shoes gritted on the floor, and she could hear gritty, hesitant echoes of her steps. Keeping up a sort of self-conscious commentary, he led her through the first floor, then up to the second. Presently they were in his own quarters, the same servants' apartment he had occupied before. The servants' furniture was gone, but in its place were a few oak pieces with leather seats, which she identified at once as having come from the shack at Lake Arrowhead. She sat down, sighed, and said it certainly would feel good to rest for a few minutes. He quickly offered tea, and when she accepted he disappeared into the bedroom. Then he came out and asked: "Or would you like something stronger? I have the heel of a bottle here."

  "I'd love something stronger."

  "I'm out of ice and seltzer, but—"

  "I prefer it straight."

  "Since when?"

  "Oh, I've changed a lot."

  The bottle turned out to be Scotch, which to her taste was quite different from rye. As she gagged over the first sip he laughed and said: "Oh, you haven't changed much. On liquor I'd say you were about the same."

  "That's what you think."

  He checked this lapse into the personal, and resumed his praise of the house. She said: "Well you don't have to sell me. I'm already sold, if wanting it is all. And you don't have to sit over there yelling at me, as though I was deaf. There's room over here, isn't there?"

  Looking a little foolish, he crossed to the settee she was occupying. She took his little finger, tweaked it. "You haven't even asked me how I am, yet."

  "How are you?"

  "Fine."

  "Then that's that."

  "How are you?"

  "Fine."

  "Then that's that."

  She tweaked his little finger again. He drew it away and said: "You know, gentlemen in my circumstances don't have a great deal of romance in th
eir lives. If you keep this up, you might find yourself the victim of some ravening brute, and you wouldn't like that, would you?"

  "Oh, being ravened isn't so bad."

  He looked away quickly and said: "I think we'll talk about the house."

  "One thing bothers me about it."

  "What's that?"

  "If I should buy it, as I'm half a mind to, where would you be? Would there be a brute ravening around somewhere, or would I have it all to myself?"

  "It would be all yours."

  "I see."

  She reached again for his finger. He pulled it away before she caught it, looking annoyed. Then, rather roughly, he put his arm around her. "Is that what you want?"

  "H'm-h'm."

  "Then that's that."

  But she had barely settled back when he took his arm away. "I made a slight mistake about the price of this house. To you, it's twenty-nine thousand, five-hundred, and eighty. That'll square up a little debt I owe you, of five hundred and twenty dollars, that's been bothering me for quite some time."

  "You owe me a debt?"

  "If you try, I think you can recall it."

  He looked quite wolfish, and she said "Booh!" He laughed, took her in his arms, touched the zipper on the front of her dress. Some little time went by, one half of him, no doubt, telling him to let the zipper alone, the other half telling him it would be ever so pleasant to give it a little pulL Then she fet her dress loosen, as the zipper began to slide. Then she felt herself being carried. Then she felt herself, with suitable roughness, being dumped down on the same iron bed, on the same tobacco4aden blankets, from which she had kicked the beach bag, years before, at Lake Arrowhead.

  "Damn it, your legs are still immoral."

  "You think they're 'bowed?"

  "Stop waving them around."

  "I asked you—"

  "No."