by Alan Isler
Kraven started. Love? Never before had she spoken of love. She was an amateur, after all, overplaying her part, turning pathos to bathos, drama to melodrama. Where was the Stella of the bikini panties, the Stella who gasped and groaned and thrust, the Stella of mindless ecstasy. Well, that Stella could scarcely emerge here. But love? That was a subject he had learned never to broach with the Stella he knew. She would have hooted him off the stage.
‘But neither Mr Kraven nor I matter in this.’ There could be no doubt that she held them, had correctly gauged her audience. ‘Whatever I tell Robert, my first thought is to spare him pain.’ They were swallowing it, gobbling it down, this sentimental glop, this overcooked stew of clichés. And now she was turning to him, her eyes piercing in their sincerity. ‘For some time now, Nicholas, I think you’ve wanted – whether consciously or not – to force me to confront our situation squarely.’
Kraven spluttered.
‘No, no, don’t protest, darling. What you want does you credit. Look beneath the surface. Think. What was the real reason you didn’t wake me this morning?’
Because I thought you were dead, you sly bitch!
‘Actually,’ said Kraven, ‘I didn’t wake before ten myself. And you, you were sleeping so peacefully, so beautifully –’
‘Robert says I sleep like a corpse.’
‘Like an angel.’
She had written his part in this second-rate melodrama and he was playing it letter-perfect. She had bewitched them all.
‘At any rate, it was already so late I thought you might as well sleep a little longer. At least until I came up with some course of action. Why wake you into panic? But then Early arrived, and after her, Rabbi Widerschein. There was nothing I could do.’
‘Man wouldn’t let me into the bedchamber, come high tide or low, said he clean it his own self.’
Stella raised Kraven’s hand to her lips. She looked up at him with shining, adoring eyes. ‘Darling, how noble of you, how gallant! A beau geste indeed! Your concern for my reputation has … I’m touched … you’ve made me so … I –’ Choking off her words, Stella turned her head abruptly away.
‘Beautiful, jess beautiful.’
Stella rallied, smiling bravely through tear-filled eyes. ‘I’m all right now. Look, everyone, there are four of us here, four heads and only one problem. Surely among us we can find the solution. Darling, what do you think I should do?’
‘Well, to begin with, I’d like to say I agree with you absolutely about not hurting Robert, poor old fellow. But having said that, I must add that your reputation is also important. To me it’s sacred.’
‘Darling Nicholas.’
‘Let’s suppose you went out yesterday evening. For cigarettes, perhaps –’
‘I don’t smoke. You know that.’
‘Well, for something, it doesn’t matter what. You remember walking to Broadway. The shop was closed – there, that’s a realistic detail, lends a little substance. And that’s all you remember. Temporary amnesia. You must have been wandering all night. At any rate, you came to yourself half an hour ago, sitting on a bench, say. Be exact: near Columbus Circle, another detail. You took a cab home. Et voilà!’
Stella shook her head, smiling sadly at him. ‘Is that the best you can do?’
‘For a perfesser,’ said Early severely, ‘you kinda poor in smarts.’
‘My sweet, you’re an innocent. Believe me, it’s not that easy to lie. I should know,’ she added bitterly, ‘I’ve been living a lie now for almost two years.’
Kraven felt queasy, un-Markolike, beyond his depth. Stella seemed to believe absolutely in the fiction she was creating before them. Could it be that the events of the past hour had unhinged her, had shaken her loose from the plane of reality and precipitated her into a scene from a three-handkerchief tearjerker of her impressionable girlhood? Was she some sort of schizophrenic? Did that delicious body harbour a host of differing personalities? The wild amoralist of his Thursday-night amours had long since given him reason to question her sanity. He had paid too little attention, perhaps.
Stella turned to Widerschein. ‘Rabbi?’
Widerschein stroked his beard gravely. ‘As I see it, we deal here with a question of adultery.’
Stella flinched.
‘To solve a problem, first you must identify it. The Talmud says, “The man who calls a date a fig, except he wants to save a human life, is a no-goodnik.” And Rabbi Gamliel comments, and again I translate, “Don’t make hanky-panky with the truth.” We’re talking maybe from pinochle here? I don’t think so. No, we’re talking from adultery. You don’t like the word is one thing, the truth is another. Listen, to make you feel better, Bathsheba probably didn’t like it either. About her you know. So, any questions? No? Good. We begin.’ He turned to Stella. ‘You Jewish?’ The question was punctuated by an upward corkscrew motion of the right forefinger.
‘No, rabbi, I’m not.’
‘Your husband, could be he’s Jewish?’ The identical gesture, now with left forefinger.
‘No.’
‘Okay, you were perhaps married in a synagogue, under a chupa, a rabbi officiated?’ Both fingers at once now, spiralling upwards in complementary directions.
‘No, no, and no.’
‘Aha!’ Widerschein smacked his fist into the palm of his hand. ‘Then there’s no problem.’ He saw the puzzlement on their faces. The simplicity of these laymen! The simplicity, especially, of gentile women! He leaned forward, both hands open, palms upward, as if revealing something fragile and precious. ‘Turns out, you’re not married, don’t you see? Not married, no possibility of adultery. No adultery, no problem. It’s simple. You thought you were talking from a fig. Wrong. You were talking from a date.’ He sat back, satisfied. ‘Hoo boy, are you lucky!’
There was a moment of utter silence, and then Kraven began to laugh. Early cut him off. ‘Rabbi, you as crazy as he is.’
‘Thank you, rabbi,’ said Stella. ‘Mrs Byrd?’
‘Honey, ’fore you does anything, you best choose up which of ’em you wants.’
Kraven’s stomach began a slow churn complicated by delicate lateral flutters.
‘I must tell Robert the truth.’
‘Stella, don’t react too hastily, for pity’s sake. Have you considered –’
‘I realize now I’ve been considering it for months, ever since I began noticing your little slips. For example, the time you phoned when he was still home.’ It had been after eight. Poore-Moody should have been well on his way to Brewster by then. ‘The time you had the bottles of wine delivered in mid-afternoon.’ He had given a clear order that they not be delivered before eight-thirty. ‘And today, not waking me up. That’s what I was thinking about while I was inside dressing. I don’t doubt, darling, that consciously you were motivated by concern for my honour. But subconsciously you were forcing the moment to its crisis. What you wanted from me was a decision. And that is Early’s point too. She knows I must decide.’ Stella stiffened her back. ‘Nicholas, I can’t, I won’t, give you up.’
Early and Widerschein simultaneously released a sigh.
Kraven’s stomach gave a sudden lurch. ‘Stella, be very sure –’
‘Darling, darling, I am.’
‘Stella, I –’
‘No need to say it, my precious one, my own dear Nicholas, I’m as happy and, yes, relieved as you are. In the long run, it’s a kindness to Robert too.’
Kraven admitted himself baffled. This was a Stella beyond his ability to interpret. What was it she contemplated? Separation, divorce, remarriage? Stella, it seemed, adored him. Think of it! But did he love Stella? It was she who had squelched that possibility. He looked at her. Lord, she was beautiful. Arousing. But love? Whatever love was, if he was capable of it then Stella was for him. He needed to rethink their relationship, that was all. It was necessary to dismantle the defences she herself had caused him to throw up around him.
But then she winked at him. What could it mean? No, she
was playing a role, enjoying herself. Did she actually love him? Go know, Widerschein Would say. Stella had created a little drama. Let it run its course. Meanwhile, there sat Widerschein and Early, knife and fork at the ready, as it were, eager to carve up and chew every word. There was time enough to learn of her actual intentions. For the time being, he would play along.
‘Stella, I –’
‘No, I know what you’re going to say. But I must tell Robert alone, in my own way.’
‘T’ain’t right. Let him go with you, honey.’
‘Er, yes, of course. You can’t face this ordeal alone, Stella.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Good grief! I’ve a meeting with the College President and the Dean of the Arts in less than an hour. The hell with it! Give me a moment to phone and cancel.’ Was Stella acting? If so, let her learn his mettle.
‘But it must be important.’
‘Well, in its way. But what is more important than us? The College is creating a new Institute of Medieval and Renaissance Studies. It seems I’m to be offered the initial directorship, God knows why.’
‘He does,’ said Widerschein.
‘In any case, I’m sure they’ll agree to meet at some other time, almost sure anyway.’
‘Nonsense! Of course you’ll attend the meeting. I’m not going to begin our life together by interfering in your career. What must you think of me? Anyway, I insist on talking to Robert alone.’ She leaned towards him and kissed him on the lips.
‘Of course, I’ll honour your decision.’ Kraven now felt confident he had discovered her wavelength. ‘My thoughts will be of you, my brave darling.’ He must be careful. He too was beginning to overplay his part.
‘When will you be back? Or can I phone you at the College?’
‘Ay, there’s the rub. I’m not supposed to know it, but Papa Doc – that’s what we call Ari Papadakis, our chairman, darling – Papa Doc is giving a party in my honour directly after the meeting. My acceptance, you see, is taken as certain. But if I go to the meeting, I don’t see how I can avoid the party. What the heck! Join me there, why don’t you? I can give you the address.’
‘I’ll scarcely be in a mood for a party, darling, especially among strangers. Don’t be impatient, beloved. Get in touch with me as soon as you get back, okay?’
They kissed, a delicious, lingering kiss.
‘Before I go up to … to Robert, I think we could all do with a drink, something stronger than Early’s excellent coffee perhaps.’
‘A little schnapps. Wouldn’t hurt, wouldn’t be bad.’ Widerschein patted his stomach.
‘How about some cognac? Early, you know where it’s kept. As for me, I must shower and change. But go ahead, enjoy yourselves.’ And Kraven fled to the sanctuary of his bedroom.
* * *
DIGNITY HAD LONG TURNED A CALLOUS BACK to the Kravens. Only consider Opa: death had overtaken that marvellous old man as he sat filling out his pools coupon, trousers down, vulnerable to attack, a frail figure in the upstairs toilet. Not even Marko had cared to check whether Opa had written a winning column. And which of them had made a better end? Kraven was acutely aware of being the last of his line. The gods, or Onkel Ferri’s demons, had one more chance to play before the game was ended.
And now Stella claimed to love him. Kraven looked at himself in the mirror: hair in disarray, hair growing perhaps a trifle thin, the odd grey thread in plain sight; a face somewhat gaunt, badly in need of a shave; bloodshot eyes from which depended bluish rings; the curving fullness of the Kraven nose. No, not an appealing sight. Still – he straightened his back – better at his present worst than Poore-Moody at his best. All in all, a shower, shave and change of clothing would work wonders. Stella was no fool.
Kraven selected a tie that might suggest at once the sobriety of the established academic about to confer with president and dean and the gaiety of the young (well, not old) bachelor whose mistress has just confessed to adoring him. Either Stella loved him because, simply put, she loved him; or because, caught in flagrante delicto and making a virtue of necessity, she had convinced herself she did; or because the shocking events of the morning had eliminated for her the line between the fantasies of grand amour she must secretly always have harboured and, to speak plain, the grunting sweaty carnality of a Thursday-night lay. Why involve Menachem Widerschein and Early Byrd in what was patently a private matter? Because she needed the co-operation of an audience in investing airy nothing with a local habitation and a name. The thing existed – not merely because Stella said so but because independent witnesses could attest to it. Their acceptance of Stella’s truth would do more than corroborate Stella, it would also convince her.
Kraven remembered Marko’s advice to the young Nicko, years and years ago: ‘Lying’s easy. You’ve got to say the first thing that comes into your head. Right out, I mean. It’s no use stopping to think.’ The lie thus spoken soon convinced even the liar of its veritude. It transformed reality, imposing the order of necessity on to the chaos of circumstance. This lesson was a large part of his inheritance from Marko.
Kraven put on his jacket. The sounds of revelry penetrated his door, a shriek of laughter. The cognac was working its social magic. It was time for them all to go about the business of the day, Early to her household chores, Widerschein to complete his rounds, Stella to face her Robert. And Kraven? A decent luncheon downtown, a walk in the spring sunshine, and then a visit to the Museum of Modern Art, which today was offering a film documentary on the life and times of Sarah Bernhardt. This evening he might drop in on the Papadakises. Once a year at their ‘annual bash’, as they called it, the chairman of the English Department and his wife paid off their accumulated social obligations. To him the invitation had been a bit desultory – they owed him nothing, after all – but he had told Stella he was going to a party and, good as his word, to a party he would go. He checked himself in the mirror. Not too bad.
Before leaving the bedroom he took from a drawer the Tickety-Boo file, leafed through it, and looked for a limerick, composed some time ago, that, as he remembered it, was singularly suited to the present occasion. Yes, here it was.
Poore-Moody, a petit-point maven,
Whose forebears in fame are engraven,
Lost his wife to a chap
With cojones on tap,
And a name that is Nicholas Kraven.
Smiling, well pleased, he put it back in the file and returned the file to the drawer.
When he entered the living room Widerschein rose to greet him, a brimming glass of cognac in his hand. ‘L’chayim!’ he said, spilling a little cognac on the rug.
‘Mazel tov!’ said Early.
‘Darling!’ said Stella.
THREE
KRAVEN TURNED UP Sixth Avenue from Fifty-third Street and walked towards the Park. The documentary, Quand Même!, had left him in a nostalgic mood. Satisfactory so far as it went, it lacked something of the warmth of his own feelings about Sarah Bernhardt. It might, too, have benefited from access to the Kraven archives. Perhaps he should consider bringing them to the Museum’s attention.
Quand même! Even so! – Sarah’s defiant motto, adopted by his grandfather, August Alexander, in humble imitation and fanatic adoration. How Opa had loved her! No, not love, love was not the word to describe what the old man had felt for Sarah Bernhardt, not even hopeless love, respectful and distant. In his eyes she had been a being beyond the eliciting of any mere human response, however exalted. She was superhuman, supernatural, even divine, and Opa had ransacked the metaphysical in search of metaphors to describe her. He had been a moth to her great flame.
August Alexander had first seen her as Doña Sol in Victor Hugo’s Hernani on February 25, 1880. It was the fiftieth anniversary of the play and Hugo himself was in the audience. Opa had been twenty-one at the time – ‘a young Bock, Nicko’ – and in Paris alone. From Doña Sol’s first appearance he had felt he was witnessing a celestial manifestation. From her first words he had been possessed by a kind of ecstasy. T
hroughout the performance he was utterly fascinated. He had walked back to his lodgings, in the rain, dazed, weeping, running a temperature. The following morning he caused to have sent to Mlle. Bernhardt the largest bouquet of flowers obtainable in winterbound Paris. To this was attached a brief note: ‘From the humblest of your adorers.’ And that very afternoon he had himself photographed outside her house in the rue Fortuny.
‘Go, Nicko, the album, the first one, over there.’ Opa would settle Nicko on his lap and open the album. ‘Here I am, a young Bock.’ And there he was indeed. In his left hand he held an umbrella, with his right he held a small posy to his heart. One foot was set on the first step leading to the front door. He gazed up at a second-floor window, behind the curtains of which one could just make out a human shape. Sarah? Perhaps. Opa had thought so.
That had been only the beginning. Thereafter, the annual trip to Paris became a pilgrimage, a hegira, undertaken with the religious enthusiasm and awe of a zealot. Every year, except, of course, for the period 1914–18, he had had himself photographed, bouquet in hand, outside her house. In 1898, when Mlle. Bernhardt moved from the rue Fortuny to the Boulevard Pereire, the locus of August Alexander’s photographs changed accordingly. The pose did not alter with the passage of time; not so August Alexander, however, who gradually assumed the portliness of his middle years. The last photograph in the series, taken on an extraordinary visit to Paris at the end of March 1923, depicted Opa in deep mourning. The pose was different. He stood with his back to the house, his arms at his sides, his head bowed, in the attitude of a military guard at a state funeral. He was an old man now, greybearded. Scattered on the pavement at his feet were the flowers of a bouquet. This photograph Opa had had mounted and edged in black. Beneath the photograph in sober print appeared the following legend:
Sarah Bernhardt
1844–1923
Quand même!
Over the years Opa had also had himself photographed outside the Odéon, the Renaissance, the Comédie Française, the Théâtre de l’Ambigu, and of course the Théâtre Sarah Bernhardt. In the end he had accumulated eight large albums filled with photographs of Sarah, virtually every one of the hundreds of postcards in which she figured, dozens and dozens of theatre programmes, posters, prints, reviews, knick-knacks, a fantastic collection, perhaps the most complete in the world. These memorabilia, transferred in haste to Hampstead when, one week before the Führer announced to history the return of his homeland to the German Reich, August Alexander fled Vienna, were now in Kraven’s New York apartment.