Mildred Pierce (30 page)

Three days later, while Mildred was helping Ida get ready for the Beverly luncheon rush, Veda’s car pulled up at the kerb. Veda got out, looking half combed and queer. When Mildred unlocked the door for her, she handed over the paper without speaking, went to a booth, and sat down. Mildred stared at the unfamiliar picture of Mr Hannen, taken before his hair turned
white, read the notice of his death with a blank, lost feeling. Then, noting that the funeral was to be held in New York, she went to the phone and ordered flowers. Then she called Western Union, and dictated a long telegram to Mrs Hannen, full of ‘heart-felt sympathy from both Veda and myself’. Then, still under some dazed compulsion to do something, she stood there, trying to think what. But that seemed to be all. She went over and sat down with Veda. After a while Veda asked one of the girls to bring her coffee. Mildred said: ‘Would you like to ride to Laguna with me, darling?’

‘All right.’

For the rest of the day, Veda tagged at Mildred’s heels, silent about Mr Hannen, but afraid, apparently, to be alone. The next day she hung around the house, and when Mildred came home at three, the piano was silent. The day after that, when she still moped, Mildred thought it time to jog her up a bit. Finding her in the den, she said: ‘Now darling, I know he was a fine man, and that you were very fond of him, but you did all you could do, and after all, these things happen, and—’

‘Mother.’

Veda spoke quietly, as one would speak to a child. ‘It isn’t that I was fond of him. Not that I didn’t love the shaggy brute. To me he’ll always be the one and only, and – oh, well, never mind. But – he taught me
music
, and—’

‘But darling, there are other teachers.’

‘Yes, about seven hundred fakes and advertisers in Los Angeles alone, and I don’t know one from another, and besides—’

Veda broke off, having evidently intended to say something, and then changed her mind. Mildred felt something coming, and waited. But Veda evidently decided she wasn’t going to say it, and Mildred asked: ‘Can’t you make inquiries?’

‘There’s one man here, just one, that Hannen had some respect for. His name is Treviso, Carlo Treviso. He’s a conductor. He conducts a lot of those operas and things out at the Hollywood Bowl. I don’t know if he takes piano pupils or not, but he might know of somebody.’

‘Do you want me to call him up?’

Veda took so long answering that Mildred became impatient,
and wanted to know what it was that Veda was holding back, anyway. ‘Has it anything to do with money? You know I don’t begrudge anything for your instruction, and—’

‘Then – call him up.’

Mr Treviso’s studio was located in downtown Los Angeles, in a building with several signs beside the door, and as Mildred and Veda walked up to the second floor, a bedlam of noises assailed their ears; tenors vocalising, pianists running dizzy scales, violinists sawing briskly in double stops. They didn’t get into Mr Treviso at once. Their knock was answered by a short, fat woman with an Italian accent, who left them in a windowless anteroom and went into the studio. At once there were sounds from within. A baritone would sing a phrase, then stop. Then there would be muffled talk. Then he would sing the same phrase again, and there would be more talk. This went on and on, until Mildred became annoyed. Veda, however, seemed mildly interested. ‘It’s the end of the Pagliacci Prologue, and he can’t hit the G on pitch. Well, there’s nothing to do about him. Treviso might just as well save his time.’

‘To say nothing of
my
time.’

‘Mother, this is a wop. So we sit.’

Presently the baritone, a stocky, red-faced boy, popped through the door and left sheepishly, and the woman came out and motioned them in. Mildred entered a studio that was rather different from Mr Hannen’s. It was almost as large, but nothing like as austere. The great black piano stood near the windows, and the furniture matched it, in size as well as elegance. Almost covering the walls were hundreds of photographs, all of celebrities so big that even Mildred had heard of some of them, and all inscribed personally to Mr Treviso. That gentleman himself, clad in a grey suit with black piping on the waistcoat, received them as a ducal counsellor might have received a pair of lesser ladies in waiting. A tall, thin Italian of perhaps fifty, with bony face and sombre eyes, he listened while Mildred explained what they had come for, then bowed coldly and waved them to seats. When Veda cut in with what Mildred had neglected to mention, that she had studied with Mr Hannen, he became slightly less formal,
struck a tragic pose, and said: ‘Poor Charl’. Ah poor, poor Charl’.’ Then he paid tribute to the Hannen tone, and said it marked him as a great artist, not merely as a pianist. Then, smiling a little, he permitted himself to reminisce. ‘I first know Charl’, was in 1922. We make tour of Italy together, I play Respighi programme wit’ orchestr’, Charl’ play Tschaikowsky concerto. Was just after Mussolini come in, and Charl’, ’e was afraid somebody make him drink castor hoil. Was bad afraid. ’E buy grey spat, black ’at, learn Giovanezza, change name to Annino, do ever’ little t’ing to look like wop. So last concert, was in Turino. After concert, all go to little cafe, ’ave last drink, say goodbye. So concertmaster, ’e stand up, whole place is right away quiet. And concertmaster, ’e make little spich, tell how fine Charl’ play Tschaikowsky concerto, say whole orchestr’ want make Charl’ little gift, express happreciation. ’E give Charl’ big mahogany box, look like ’ave gold cup in it, somet’ing pretty nice. Charl’, ’e make little spich too, say t’anks boys, sure is big surprise. ’E open box – was roll toilet paper!’

Mr Treviso’s smile had broadened into a grin, and his black eyes sparkled so brightly they almost glared. Mildred, whether because of the anecdote itself, or the recent death of its subject, or the realisation that she was in the presence of a point of view completely alien to her, wasn’t amused, though she smiled a little, to be polite. But Veda affected to think this was the funniest thing she had ever heard in her life, and egged Mr Treviso on to more stories. He looked at his watch and said he would now listen to her play.

The Veda who sat down at the piano was a quite different Veda from the one who had so airily entertained Mr Hannen three years ago. She was genuinely nervous, and it occurred to Mildred that her encouragement to Mr Treviso’s story-telling might have been a stall for time. She thought a moment, then with grim face launched into a piece known to Mildred as the Brahms Rhapsody. Mildred didn’t like it much. It went entirely too fast for her taste, except for a slow part in the middle, that sounded a little like a hymn. However, she sat back comfortably, waiting for the praise that Mr Treviso would bestow, and that she would tell Ida about, that night.

Mr Treviso wandered over to the window, and stood looking down at the street. When Veda got to the slow part, he half turned around, as though to say something, then didn’t. All during the slow part he stared down at the street. When Veda crashed into the fast part again, he walked over and closed the piano, elaborately giving Veda time to get her hands out of the way. In the bellowing silence that followed, he went to the far corner of the studio and sat down, a ghastly smile on his face, as though he had been prepared for burial by an undertaker who specialised in pleasant expressions.

It was an appreciable interval before it dawned on Mildred what he had done, and why. Then she looked toward the piano to suggest that Veda play one of her slower pieces. But Veda was no longer there. She was at the door, pulling on her gloves, and before Mildred could say anything, she dived out the door. Mildred jumped up, followed, and in the hall called to her. But Veda was running down the stairs and didn’t look up. The next Mildred knew, Tommy was driving them home, and Veda was sitting with writhing face and clenched hands, staring horribly at the floor. Even as Mildred looked, a white line appeared on the back of one of the gloves, and it popped.

All the way home Mildred fumed at the way Mr Treviso had treated them. She said she had never seen anything like that in her life. If he didn’t like the way Veda had played the piece, he could have said so like a gentleman, instead of acting like that. And the very idea, having an appointment with two ladies for four o’clock, keeping them waiting until a quarter to five, and then, when they had barely got in the door, telling them a story about
toilet
paper. If that was the only man in Los Angeles that Mr Hannen had any respect for, she certainly had her opinion of Mr Hannen’s taste. A lot of this expressed Mildred’s very real irritation, but some of it was to console Veda, by taking her side after an outrageous episode. Veda said nothing, and when they got home she jumped out of the car and ran in the house. Mildred followed, but when she got to Veda’s room it was locked. She knocked, then knocked again, sharply. Then she commanded Veda to open the door. Nothing happened, and
inside there was silence. Letty appeared, and asked in a frightened way what the trouble was. Paying no attention to Letty, Mildred ran out to the kitchen, grabbed a chair, and ran outside. A sudden paralysing fear had come over her as to what Veda might be doing in there. Putting the chair near the house, she stood on it and raised the screen. Then she stepped into the room. Veda was lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling in the same unseeing way she had stared at the floor of the car. Her hands were still clenching and unclenching, and her features looked thick. Mildred, who had expected at the very least to see an empty iodine bottle lying around somewhere, first felt relieved, then cross. Unlocking the door, she said: ‘Well, my goodness, you don’t have to scare everybody to death.’

‘Mother, if you say my goodness one more time I shall scream, I shall scream!’

Veda spoke in a terrible rasping whisper, then closed her eyes. Stiffening, and stretching out her arms as though she were a figure on a crucifix, she began to talk to herself, in a bitter voice, between clenched teeth. ‘You can kill it – you can kill it right now – you can drive a knife through its heart – so it’s dead, dead,
dead
– you can forget you ever tried to play the piano – you can forget there ever was such a thing as a piano – you can—’

‘Well, my g——. Well, for heaven’s sake, the piano isn’t the only thing on earth. You could – you could
write
music.’ Pausing, Mildred tried to remember what Bert had said that day, about Irving Berlin, but just then Veda opened her eyes. ‘You damned, silly-looking cluck, are you trying to drive me
insane
? . . . Yes, I could write music. I can write you a motet, or a sonata, or a waltz, or a cornet solo, with variation – anything at all, anything you want. And not one note of it will be worth the match it would take to burn it. You think I’m hot stuff, don’t you? You, lying there every day, dreaming about rainbows. Well, I’m not. I’m just a Glendale Wunderkind. I know all there is to know about music, and there’s one like me in every Glendale on earth, every one-horse conservatory, every tank-town university, every park band. We can read anything, play anything, arrange anything, and we’re just no good. Punks. Like you. God, now I
know where I get it from. Isn’t that funny? You start out a Wunderkind, then find out you’re just a goddam punk.’

‘Well, if that’s the case, it certainly does seem peculiar that he wouldn’t have known it. Mr Hannen, I mean. And told you so. Instead of—’

‘Do you think he didn’t know it? And didn’t tell me? He told me every time he saw me – my tunes stunk, my playing stunk, everything I did stunk – but he liked me. And he knew how I felt about it. Christ, that was something, after living with you all my life. So we went on with it, and he thought perhaps Old Man Maturity, as he called him, might help out, later. He will, like hell. In this racket you’ve got it or you haven’t, and –
will you wipe that stupid look off your face and stop acting as if it was somebody’s fault
?’

‘It certainly would seem, after all that work—’

‘Can’t you understand anything at all? They don’t pay off on work, they pay off on talent!
I’m just no good
! I’M NO GODDAM GOOD AND THERE’S NOTHING THAT CAN BE DONE ABOUT IT!’

When a shoe whizzed past her head, Mildred went out, picked up her handbag, and started over to Beverly. She felt no resentment at this tirade. She had got it through her head at last that something catastrophic had happened to Veda, and that it was completely beyond her power to understand. But that wouldn’t stop her from trying, in her own way, to think what she could do about it.

I
n a day or so, feeling that Veda was the victim or some sort of injustice, Mildred decided that the Messrs Harmen and Treviso weren’t the only teachers in Los Angeles; that battles aren’t won by quitting, but by fighting hard; that Veda should go on with her music, whether the great masters liked it or not. But when she outlined this idea to Veda, the look from the bed cut her off in the middle of a sentence. Then, unable to give up the idea that Veda was ‘talented’, she decided that aesthetic dancing was the thing. There was a celebrated Russian dancer who often dined at Laguna, and this authority was sure that with Veda’s looks and good Russian instruction, things might still be straightened out. But at this Veda merely yawned. Then Mildred decided that Veda should enter one of the local schools, possibly Marlborough, and prepare herself for college. But this seemed a bit silly when Veda said: ‘But Mother, I can’t roll a hoop any more.’

Yet Veda continued to mope in her room, until Mildred became thoroughly alarmed, and decided that whatever the future held, for the present something had to be done. So one day she suggested that Veda call up some of her friends and give them a little party. Conquering her loyalty to the house, the conviction that it was good enough for anything Veda might want to do in it, she said: ‘If you don’t want to ask them here, why not Laguna? You can have a whole room to yourself. I can have Lucy fix up a special table, there’s an orchestra we can get, and afterwards you can dance or do anything you want.’