Джеймс Кейн - Mildred Pierce

“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. O.K., ask a pipple. Ask a pipple turned 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 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-O-Ham 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 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.

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, 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, 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?

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 the 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, hangdog 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!”