Mildred Pierce - James M. Cain [124]
Veda made curious, prodding motions just above her midriff, while Monty frowned incredulously. "Yes! Believe it or not, he even dug his fingers in the Dairy. Well! I didn't exactly know what to think, or do."
Veda could make a very funny face when she wanted to, and Monty started to laugh. In spite of herself, so did Mildred. Veda went on: "But it turned out he wasn't interested in love. He was interested in meat. He said it enriched the tone."
"The what?"
Monty's voice rose to a whoop as he said this, and the next thing they knew, the three of them were howling with laughter, howling at Veda's Dairy as they had howled at Mrs. Biederhof's bosom, that first night, many years before.
When Mildred went to bed her stomach hurt from laughter, her heart ached from happiness. Then she remembered that while Veda had kissed her, that first moment when she had entered the house, she still hadn't kissed Veda. She tiptoed into the room she had hoped Veda would occupy, knelt beside the bed as she had knelt so many times in Glendale, took the lovely creature in her arms and kissed her, hard, on the mouth. She didn't want to go. She wanted to stay, to blow through the holes in Veda's pajamas. And when she got back to her room she couldn't bear it that Monty should be there. She wanted to be 'alone, to let these little laughs come bubbling out of her, to think about Veda.
Monty agreed to withdraw to the tackroom as he called the place where he stored his saddles, bridles, and furniture from the shack, with complete good humor—with more good humor, perhaps, than a husband should show, at such a request.
CHAPTER XVI
MILDRED NOW ENTERED the days of her apotheosis. War was crashing in Europe, but she knew little of it, and cared less. She was drunk with the glory of the Valhalla she had entered: the house among the oaks, where dwelt the girl with the coppery hair, the lovely voice, and the retinue of admirers, teachers, coaches, agents, and thieves who made life so exciting. For the first time. Mildred became acquainted with theatres, opera houses, broadcasting studios, and such places, and learned something of the heartbreak they can hold. There was, for example, the time Veda sang in a local performance of Traviata, given at the Philharmonic under the direction of Mr. Treviso. She had just had the delightful sensation of beholding Veda alone on stage for at least ten minutes, and at the intermission went out into the lobby, to drink in the awestruck comment of the public. To her furious surprise, a voice behind her, a man's voice, with effeminate intonation, began: "So that's La Pierce, radio's gift to the lyric muse. Well, there's no use telling me, you can't raise singers in Glendale. Why, the girl's simply nauseating. She gargles it over her tonsils in that horrible California way, she's off pitch half the time, and as for acting-did you notice her routine, after Alfredo went off? She had no routine. She planted one heel on that dime, locked both hands in front of her, and just stayed there until . . ."
While Mildred's temples throbbed with helpless rage, the voice moved off somewhere, and another one began, off to one side: "Well, I hope you all paid close attention to the critique of operatic acting, by one who knows nothing about it—somebody ought to tell that fag that the whole test of operatic acting is how few motions they have to make, to put across what they're trying to deliver. John Charles Thomas, can he make them wait till he's ready to shoot it! And Flagstad, how to be an animated Statue of Liberty! And Scotti, I guess he was nauseating. He was the greatest of them all. Do you know how many gestures he made when he sang the Pagliacci Prologue? One, just one. When he came to the F—poor bastard, he could never quite make the A flat—he raised his hand, and turned it over, palm upward. That was all, and he made you cry. . . . This