Mildred Pierce - James M. Cain [97]
Three days later, while Mildred was helping Ida get ready for the Beverly luncheon rush, Veda's car pulled up at the curb. 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 down-town 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 vocalizing, pianists running dizzy scales, violinists sawing briskly in double stops. They didn't get in to 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