Джеймс Кейн - Mildred Pierce

“You mean I’ll have to, to hold my trade?”

“I mean there’s dough in it.”

He looked at her with his familiar stare, that was at the same time so vague and so shrewd, and her heart gave a little thump. It was the first time, for some reason, that this aspect of the problem had occurred to her. He went on, a little annoyed at her stupidity: “What the hell? Every drink you sell will be about eighty per cent profit, even at what you have to pay for your liquor. And it’ll pull in more people for the dinner trade. If Lucy Gessler wants to take it over, then O.K. If she don’t know about booze, I don’t know who does. Get going on it, and get going now. It’s coming, fast. And be sure you put on your sign, Cocktails . That’s what they’re waiting for. Put a red star in front of it, so they know you know it’s important.”

“Will I need some kind of a license?”

“I’ll fix that up for you.”

So the next time Mrs. Gessler came in, she found Mildred in a different frame of mind. She nodded approval of what Wally had said about the sign, then became coldly businesslike about other obligatory preparations. “I’ll need a bar, but there’s no room for one until you make alterations, so I’ll have to get along with a portable. It’ll be a perambular thing that I’ll wheel from table to table — the same as most other places are going to use, temporarily. It’ll have to be specially made and it’ll cost you about three hundred bucks. Then I’ll need a couple of hundred dollars’ worth of liquor. I ought to have more, but it’ll be all I can get, in the beginning. Then I want a couple of leather seats, near the door, with a low table between. Between trips to the tables, I’ll be running my own little soiree over here, and I’ll sell plenty of drinks to people waiting to be seated for dinner. Then I’ll want a special bus, assigned to me alone. Your kid Pancho has a pal that’ll do, by the name of Josie. He won’t be available for general work, because he’ll have to wash glasses for me all the time, and wash them the way I want them washed, and bring beer from the icebox when I call for it, and ice whatever wine we sell, and he’ll have all he can do, just helping me. Then I’ll need a full set of cocktail, highball, and wine glasses — not too many, but we’ll have to have the right glasses for the right drinks. Then, let’s see. You’ll need pads of special bar checks, to run separate from the others. It’s the only way we can keep it straight. That’s about all I can think of now.”

“How much, all in all?”

“About five hundred to start — for the bar, glasses, furniture and checks. The liquor will be over and above the five hundred, but you won’t pay till the Monday after delivery, and by that time we ought to have a few dollars coming in.”

Mildred gulped, told Mrs. Gessler she would let her know next day. That night she lay awake, and her mind darted first to this scheme, then to that, whereby she could furnish five hundred dollars. She kept a little reserve of two or three hundred dollars, but she dared not dip into it, as sad experience had taught her that emergencies arose constantly that demanded instant cash. It was a long time before her mind darted at last to the only way she could get the money: by robbing the special account for Veda’s piano. It now amounted to $567, and the moment she thought of it she tried not think of it, and began once more her frantic questing for schemes. But soon she knew this was what she had to do; knew that Veda couldn’t have her piano for Christmas. Then once more rage began to suffocate her — not at Mrs. Gessler, or Repeal, or any of the circumstances that made this new outlay necessary, but at Monty, for the money he had cost her, those endless $10’s and $20’s which now, if she had them, would see her through. She worked herself into such a state that presently she had to get up, put on a kimono, and make herself a cup of tea, so she could quiet down.

Christmas morning Mildred woke up with one of her rare hangovers. It had indeed been a gay night at the little restaurant, for the bar, opening promptly on December 6, had outdone all that had been expected of it. Not only had it taken in large sums itself, but it had drawn a bigger dinner trade, and a better dinner trade. Mrs. Gessler, in gabardine slacks of the same brickred as the waitresses’ uniforms, white mess jacket with brass buttons, and red ribbon around her hair, seemed to catch the diners’ fancy, and certainly she was expert enough to please the most fastidious. Tips went up, and when the kitchen celebration finally got going, it was exceedingly festive. Hans, the baker, was supposed to be off at night, but he showed up anyway, and got the party started with a bang by feeling Sigred’s leg. Sigrid was a Swedish girl Mildred had hired mainly for her looks, and then found out was one of the best waitresses she had ever seen. Then, just to be impartial, Hans felt Arline’s leg, and Emma’s, and Audrey’s. Emma and Audrey had been taken on the day after the opening, just to forestall the possibility of another jam-up. The ensuing squeals were enjoyed by Pancho and Josie, who sat apart, not quite of things, yet not quite out of them; and by Mrs. Kramer, an assistant cook Mildred was training. They were emphatically not enjoyed by Carl, a seventeen-year-old who drove the little secondhand delivery truck Mildred had bought, and painted cream, with “Mildred Pierce, Pies” lettered on it in bold red script. He concentrated on ice cream and cake, and eyed Hans’s efforts with stony disapproval, to the great delight of Arline, who kept screaming that he was learning “the facks of life.”

Mildred had sat down with them, and put out wine and whiskey, and taken two or three drinks herself. What with the liquor, and the thanks she received for the $10 she had given each of them, she began to feel so friendly that she weakened in her resolve to give Monty nothing whatever for Christmas. First she took his orchids out of the icebox and pinned them on, to a loud chorus of applause. Then she had another drink, went over to the cash box, and smooched four $10 bills. These she put in a little envelope and wrote on it, “Merry Christmas, Monty.” Then, hearing from Mrs. Gessler that he had arrived, she went into the dining room, weaving slightly, and elaborately took him outside. Under the trees she slipped the envelope into his pocket and thanked him for the orchids, which she said were the most beautiful she had ever had. Then she invited him to smell them. Laughing a little, obviously delighted at her condition, he reminded her that orchids had no smell. “Smell’m anyway.” So he smelled, and reported that the orchids still had no smell, but that she smelled fine. She nodded, satisfied, and kissed him. Then she took him inside, where Bert, Wally, Mrs. Gessler, and Veda were sitting at a table, having a little celebration of their own.

And yet the evening had had an unpleasant finish: Monty and Veda began whispering together, and went into gales of laughter at some joke of their own. Mildred heard the words “varlets’ yulabaloo,” and concluded, probably correctly, that they were laughing at the party in the kitchen. She launched into a long, boozy harangue on the rights of labor, and how anybody who worked for a living was as good as anybody else. Wally tried to shush her down and Mrs. Gessler tried to shush her down, but it was no use. She went on to the bitter end. Then, somewhat inconsistently, she lurched to her feet, went to the kitchen, and asked how people could enjoy themselves with all that yelling going on. This had the effect of ringing down the curtain, front and rear.

Now, as she got up and dressed, she had a sour recollection of the harangue, and a still sourer recollection of the four $10’s that had followed their predecessors down a bottomless rathole. She had given Letty the day off, so she went to the kitchen, made herself coffee, and drank it black. Then, hearing Veda’s water running, she knew she had to hurry. She went to her bedroom, got a pile of packages out of the closet, and took them to the living room. Quickly she arranged a neat display around the base of the tree that had already been set up and decorated. Then she took out her own offering and looked at it. It was a wristwatch. She had put off buying it until the last moment, hoping the profits from the bar would permit her to order the piano anyway. But the unforeseen had again intervened. During the first hectic days of Repeal, Mrs. Gessler had a devil’s own time finding liquor, and for much of it had to pay cash. So the hope died, and at the last minute, Mildred had dashed downtown and bought this gaud for $75. She listened close and heard its tiny tick, but it didn’t sound much like a grand piano. Glumly she wrapped it, wrote a little card, tucked it under the ribbon. Then she set it beside the package from Bert.