Special dishes, it turned out, were needed desperately, on the chance that the stricken man could be tempted to eat, and in that way build up his strength. So daily, for a week, a big hamper was delivered by Tommy, full of chicken cooked by Mildred herself, tiny sandwiches prepared by Ida, cracked crab nested in ice by Archie, sherries selected by Mrs. Gessler. Mildred Pierce, Inc., spit on its hands to show what it could do. Then one day Mildred and Veda took the hamper over in person, together with a great bunch of red roses. When they arrived at the house, the morning paper was still on the grass, a market circular was stuffed under the door. They rang, and there was no answer. Veda looked at Mildred, and Tommy carried the things back to the car. That afternoon, a long incoherent telegram arrived for Mildred, dated out of Phoenix, Ariz., and signed by Mrs. Hannen. It told of the wild ride to the sanitarium there, and begged Mildred to have the gas turned off.
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 “heartfelt 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 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 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 gray suit with black piping on the waistcoat, received them as a ducal counselor 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 program wit’ orchestr’, Charl’ play Tschaikowsky concerto. Was just after Mussolini come in, and Charl’, ’e was afraid somebody make him drink castor oil. Was bad afraid. ’e buy gray spat, black ’at, learn Giovanezaz, 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 good-bye. So 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 realization 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 storytelling 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.