Джеймс Кейн - Mildred Pierce

Mr. Treviso had seated himself, and listened with his death-mask smile, and for some moments he studied his fingernails 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 a half 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 how 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, O.K. you pay eight eighty, but don’t 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, 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 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’ous-and 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, rest of 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 a music before conductor raise a stick. And specially coloratura — wit’out rhythm, wit’out music, all dees ha-ha-ha 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 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 O.K., ’ere is little t’ing you can read by sight. So I begin to 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 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. O.K., you ’ear Snack-O-Ham program?”

“Yes, I did.”