Kraven Images

by Alan Isler

  ‘Congratulations.’ Nicko, smiling, tried hard to swallow his envy. ‘What college?’

  ‘Mosholu. Odd name, what? Has a sort of Jewish flavour to it, pious offspring founding a college, that sort of thing: In Memory of Our Beloved Parents Moshe and Lou Katz.’ Marko rubbed his hands together in glee. ‘It’s in the Bronx, wherever that is. Somewhere near New York, I’m told.’

  ‘Marko, have you pictured yourself behind the lectern? Do you honestly think you’re capable of teaching college students?’

  ‘They’re bloody Americans, you bloody sap. It’ll be bloody money for bloody jam. What the bloody hell do they know?’

  * * *

  THE DISSERTATION WAS ACCEPTED. Professor C.U.T. Quimby had found it a trifle eccentric, Marko reported. The great scholar had pursed his lips around the tip of his tongue. ‘Surely not every encounter between father and son, dear boy, reproduces the meeting of poor Laius and his burly offspring on the road to Thebes. You have quite succumbed, I fear, to the Hebrew melodies of your coreligionist, that naughty little doctor from Vienna.’ Still, he had admitted that the dissertation was cogently argued and adequately substantiated, possibly even commercially publishable. He had held out a thin cold hand. ‘So you’re off to the former colonies, eh? Perhaps our paths will cross there. Good luck, dear Marko.’ Quimby had turned his face away, a tear trickling down his rouged and hollow cheek. ‘Ah, Marko, Marko!’ The old man had been quite overcome.

  Marko turned up in Hampstead again to make a selection of Kraven furniture for shipment to New York.

  ‘My God, Marko, you’re turning a frightful colour!’

  ‘Been using a sunlamp, actually.’

  ‘You should see a doctor.’

  ‘But I am a doctor, old chap.’

  ‘What does Sybil say?’

  ‘Sybil says, “Do it again, Marko! Don’t stop!” That’s what Sybil says.’ He winked and made pumping motions with his hips.

  One month before Marko’s planned departure, Nicko flew to Paris to confer with his opposite number at the main branch of Dindan Frères. He was gone three days. Upon his return he was greeted by a phone call from the Compleat Mourner.

  ‘I’ve got tragic news, Nicko. You’d better brace yourself.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Marko’s dead, run over in Oxford Street early yesterday evening.’ The Compleat Mourner had, through long practice, a manner of saying such things that somehow softened the meaning of the words. Nevertheless, this was a shock.

  ‘I can’t believe it!’

  ‘I know, I know. You two were very close. The funeral’s tomorrow, the usual place. I’ve made all the arrangements. It had to be delayed, you see, because of the rum circumstances. He was bright yellow. There’s been an autopsy, of course. I’ll pick you up in the car at nine-thirty.’

  ‘But you said he was run over.’

  ‘He was, after a fashion. It seems he collapsed in the path of a bus, a number 113. The driver swerved to avoid him, but he was too late. There were plenty of witnesses. It wasn’t the driver’s fault. Marko held up traffic for forty-five minutes, according to the wireless. Lucky it wasn’t rush hour. You see the pattern, don’t you, Nicko? There’ll be another inquest, just as there was for poor Koko.’

  The coroner’s inquest in due course found that death had been caused by ‘carrot-juice addiction’. The court heard evidence that in the last ten days of his life, without regard to his earlier known habits, the late Marcus Nicholas Kraven, PhD, had taken eighty million units of vitamin A. In addition, he had drunk during that period about ten gallons of carrot juice. Dr Gerard Barker, the pathologist who performed the autopsy, testified that the effect of so vast an intake of vitamin A from carrots and tablets was virtually indistinguishable from alcoholic poisoning. ‘It produces the same result,’ he said. ‘Cirrhosis of the liver. The man was dead before the bus struck him.’

  The funeral was sparsely attended. At the graveside, apart from Nicko, the Compleat Mourner and Aunt Cicely, stood Sibyl Bowen, Dr C.U.T. Quimby, and a brusque young rabbi, eager to get it over with. The wind blew strongly out of a low, smudged sky, whipping the pages of the rabbi’s prayer book and moulding to her body Sybil’s black dress. Undoubtedly pregnant, Sybil stared unseeingly through eyes red and swollen. Nicko took her by the arm to steady her; she seemed on the point of collapse.

  They all stared down at the coffin, the Compleat Mourner with equanimity, Aunt Cicely sourly. A spattering of rain came and went. Quimby stood slightly apart from the other mourners, holding a large, dirty handkerchief to his nose, blowing, wiping, blowing. He seemed genuinely sorrowful and watched the young rabbi with hungry attention. Later, he shook hands with the family members. ‘Reft of my dearest pledge,’ he mumbled, and blew his nose. ‘Tragic, an inestimable loss.’ He turned to the rabbi. ‘Care for a lift back into town, dear boy? I’ve a comment or two on the ritual you might find interesting.’

  The Compleat Mourner, dragging a reluctant Aunt Cicely with him, took the opportunity to visit a number of familiar grave sites scattered about the cemetery. His was the smooth and cheerful manner of the professional cicerone, eager to point out to the traveller the local antiquities and curiosities.

  Nicko accompanied Sybil back to her waiting taxi. She was quietly weeping. ‘I killed him,’ she said.

  ‘Whatever you’d like to keep for remembrance…’

  ‘He was all right until I told him about bloody vitamin A. I should turn myself in. O God, Marko darling! O Marko!’

  Nicko helped her into her taxi. He stole another glance at her midriff. ‘I suppose he had already made his final arrangements. One forgets that he was about to leave anyway.’

  ‘Leave?’ She was looking at him now, not through him.

  ‘For America, his teaching post.’

  Her large eyes, beautiful, brimmed with tears. ‘Oh please, Marko said nothing about America. Why would he go there? He’d have had to tell me, wouldn’t he? I’d have to get ready myself.’

  ‘Absolutely. Forgive me, I’m confused. Look, if something should come up…’ He felt in his jacket pocket. ‘Here’s my card. Get in touch with me, don’t hesitate.’

  She did not respond. Her eyes had lost their focus. She held the card rigidly in her hand.

  ‘You know the address, driver? You’d better take her home.’

  He never heard from Sybil again, of course.

  It was while he was writing a letter to Professor Aristotle Papadakis, Chairman of the English Department, Mosholu College, explaining Marko’s inability to take up his new post in the autumn that Nicko conceived his brilliant idea, an idea at once breathtaking in its audacity and terrifying in its implications. It was a very simple idea. Why might he not go to America in Marko’s place? Who would know the difference? If this Papadakis was prepared to receive a Marcus Nicholas Kraven and a Nicholas Marcus Kraven presented himself, verifying diploma ‘onanistically in hand’, would he even question the inversion of names? Why should he?

  But no, there must be a flaw in it somewhere. Nicko, of all people, would never get away with it. Bravura on a grand scale was hardly his forte. He resumed his writing.

  But the brilliant idea refused to go away. It nudged and teased his concentration, drawing his mind away from the letter. The academic degree was much more certainly his than it had ever been Marko’s. How splendid if he were able to devote his life to literature, to scholarship, to the pursuit of Truth! How inexpressibly wonderful if he were to become a torchbearer in the dark night of ignorance and kindle the flame of learning in eager young minds!

  America, to the west, offered unlimited hope, a vita nuova. The natural leaning of the Kravens tugged at him. But could he – he, law-abiding, diffident Nicholas – pull off so grand a deception, so terrifying a fraud? And would he dare? Absently, he plucked an imaginary pimple on his cheek. Only if he were to become Marko in fact, not merely in fancy, could he burst through the iron gates of his prison into the bright lights of freedom.<
br />
  Kraven was on his way.

  * * *

  ‘CHEER UP, GUY. She didn’t mean it. And if she did, well hey!’

  ‘What?’ Kraven looked up to find Dolly Divine at his elbow, smiling encouragingly, her drink in her hand.

  ‘It’s never as bad as it looks.’

  ‘To me it looks very good indeed,’ said Kraven gallantly. ‘You’re Dolly Divine, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she breathed. Her broad grin showed her delight in his recognition. ‘You a fan?’

  ‘I’m Martin Chuzzlewit,’ said Kraven. ‘I’m a freelance journalist.’

  ‘No kidding? D’you read what the Wall Street Journal said about my act? I was a smash hit at Spinoza’s. You ever do reviews, Marty?’

  ‘Books, sometimes. Look, may I buy you a drink?’

  She swirled what remained of the drink in her glass. ‘In a bit, maybe. Let’s go sit over there by the window. I’m waiting for my sisters.’

  Donovan, behind the bar, disapproving, took out his copy of Midstream and turned its pages.

  Dolly Divine rolled on a calm full tide across the room towards a window seat. Kraven, his troubles forgotten, followed her admiringly. They sat at opposite sides of the table.

  ‘So what didja like best about my act, Marty?’

  ‘Ah, well…’

  ‘My “Stormy Weather” number, right? Yeah, that always brought the house down. I used to think it was the tassels. You remember the tassels, Marty? They loved “Stormy Weather” at Spinoza’s.’

  Meanwhile, the door of Donovan’s had opened and closed. Dolly looked up and waved excitedly. Coming towards them were a brunette and a redhead. Kraven got to his feet.

  ‘So how did it go, Dolly?’ said the brunette anxiously.

  Dolly gave a thumbs-up sign.

  ‘No kidding! You gonna tell us, for Chrisake?’ The brunette put her hand to her left breast, as if to slow her heartbeat.

  ‘Later. But don’t worry. You’re in like Flynn, too. Sit down, why doncha, the both of you. You too, Marty.’

  They sat.

  ‘These’re my sisters,’ said Dolly. ‘Sugar Plum…’

  ‘Please t’meecha,’ said Sugar, pushing one shoulder forward and looking up at him beneath lowered lids. The tip of her tongue briefly caressed her upper lip. She was the brunette, her hair descending softly to her shoulders, a fringe covering her forehead. Like Dolly heavily but expertly made up, her face was rather thin, and she was perhaps slightly less well endowed than her sister. For all that, she was striking.

  ‘…and the baby, Candy Peaches.’

  Candy, who, despite the hard, unfriendly surfaces of Donovan’s captain’s chair, was stretched out so that only her shoulders and coccyx touched it, said nothing. But she nodded to Kraven, grinning, and gave him an inexplicable, complicitous wink.

  ‘I’m Martin Chuzzlewit,’ said Kraven.

  ‘Marty’s a fan,’ explained Dolly. ‘Besides that, he writes a column. That right, Marty? He was just telling me how he was wowed by my “Stormy Weather” number. So I was thinking like maybe he’d like to write up about today. I mean, y’know, an in-depth interview? Lucky us meeting like this.’

  ‘May I buy you ladies a drink?’

  Dolly downed what remained in her glass. ‘You bet.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ said Sugar Plum.

  Candy winked once more.

  ‘Barkeep!’ called Kraven sternly and snapped his fingers.

  Donovan looked up, sighed, put down Midstream and shuffled over. ‘Hi, Sugar Plum. Hi, Candy.’

  ‘Well, ladies,’ said Kraven expansively, ‘what will it be?’

  ‘Daiquiri, straight up,’ said Dolly.

  ‘Vodka gimlet,’ said Sugar Plum. ‘Heavy on the ice.’

  ‘Stinger,’ said Candy.

  ‘And I’ll have another scotch and water. Got all that?’

  Donovan raised his eyes to the ceiling and shuffled back to the bar.

  ‘Your tastes in tipple are as different as your looks. Each of you is uniquely beautiful.’

  ‘Momma moved around a lot,’ said Sugar Plum.

  ‘And you’re all in show business?’

  ‘Dolly’s the real artiste,’ said Sugar sadly. ‘I’m the oldest – not that I’m old,’ she added hastily, ‘but, like, y’know, I was born first. Jeez, someone’s gotta be! – but anyways, I never made it into the big time, never got the breaks. And Candy here has barely started.’

  ‘That’s pretty good, Sugar,’ said Candy. ‘“Barely started” is good.’

  Sugar Plum looked puzzled.

  ‘Never mind, honey,’ said Dolly, leaning forward to pat her older sister on the knee. ‘You’ll make it. You gotta believe, is all.’

  The drinks arrived, presented by Donovan with an extravagant flourish to the sisters and with an irritable grunt to Kraven. They sipped, the sisters ruminating on the vagaries of show-business success.

  ‘Dolly ain’t just a stripper, Marty,’ said Sugar Plum. ‘Bobby – that’s our angel, Bobby – he says she’s dizzy-assed.’

  ‘An Ecdysiast, for Pete’s sake!’ Candy gave Sugar Plum a lovingly playful punch on the shoulder.

  ‘Who is Bobby?’

  ‘He’s a mult-eye millionaire,’ said Sugar Plum. ‘He’s gonna make Dolly an innernational celebrity.’

  ‘Okay, Sugar. That’s enough,’ said Dolly hastily. ‘Listen, Marty. I know you’ll understand. Things’re kinda in the balance right now. We’ve got this backer, see? This angel? But nothing’s finalized. He don’t want his name mentioned just yet. But since you’re a friend, I can tell you: things’re looking good.’

  ‘You’re putting on a show in Europe,’ said Kraven. ‘Sorry about that, but I heard you talking to Donovan.’

  ‘Exploring the possibilities, y’might say,’ said Dolly, playing it close to her bosom. ‘Checking out the options. You know: nothing definite. The sons-a-bitches get a whiff of the rolling green and the prices take off. You buy one little dress, it can cost anywheres up from seven hundred and fifty. And ostrich feathers? Forget it!’ The road to the big time was strewn with boulders. ‘You know what my costumes’re worth? Wanna take a guess? Twenty, maybe twenty-five gees!’

  ‘How did you meet Bobby?’

  ‘I was doing a private party up in Westchester, couple maybe three years ago, my “Scheherezade” number. Bobby liked my act. I don’t remember, did I do my “Scheherezade” at Spinoza’s? You remember, Marty? Anyways, Bobby and me got to talking, found we had a lot in common. You know how it is. He’s a sweet old guy.’

  ‘And you’re all going to Europe with him?’

  ‘Dolly is,’ said Sugar Plum. ‘We’re going along with Dolly.’

  ‘I think I detect a romantic entanglement.’

  ‘For the record,’ said Dolly with a mischievous grin, ‘you might say we’re just good friends.’

  ‘Another round, ladies?’ Kraven snapped his fingers at Donovan, pointed to the table, and made a circular motion with his finger.

  ‘I always wanted to go legit,’ said Dolly.

  ‘You could do it, too,’ said Sugar Plum.

  Candy, grimacing, rolled her eyes ceilingwards.

  Donovan placed the second round on the table and with a flourish removed the empty glasses.

  ‘It ain’t easy to change your image, break outta burlesque, open on Broadway maybe, Hollywood even.’ Dolly fell silent before the enchanting possibilities. The big break was happening to someone every day.

  ‘You could do it, Dolly,’ said Sugar Plum again. ‘She could too. Go on, tell him about the show.’

  Dolly looked at Kraven dubiously.

  ‘He’s okay,’ said Sugar Plum. ‘You won’t spill any a this, will you, Marty?’

  ‘Mum’s the word.’

  ‘Well, I got this idea for a show, see, a show with class… You really innerested in this, Marty?’

  ‘Fascinated.’

  ‘I figure, y’know, to kinda ease into legit. I figure, I m
ake my reputation over there, I can write my own ticket back here in the States. So I gotta get me a different kinda audience, not just a lot a guys who only wanna look at your whatsis. Oh sure, there’ll still be plenty of naked girls on stage, three maybe four strippers, a comedienne, a couple of gymnasts, an all-girl orchestra, and like that. See, what we’d do, we’d do these scenes from Shakespeare.’

  ‘What a terrific idea!’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Dolly modestly, ‘not too bad. I even got this title, Candy give it me, some kinda Follies. What was it, Can?’

  ‘Bardic Follies.’ Candy, shifting in her seat, sipping her drink, crossed one magnificent leg over the other.

  ‘That’s probably just the shot in the arm the legitimate theatre needs,’ said Kraven. ‘An all-female Shakespeare company. Bardic Follies. I like it.’

  ‘Candy’s been to college,’ said Sugar Plum proudly. ‘She’s a bachelor-girl.’

  ‘I even got this scene worked out,’ Dolly went on. ‘Hamlet. You know the play, Marty? Well, Candy was telling me about this book she read, and I saw the possibilities right away. It was by this shrink, a buddy of Frood.’ She snapped impatient fingers at Candy.

  ‘Jones,’ said Candy agreeably, ‘Ernest Jones, a limey disciple.’

  ‘This is the way I see it. The curtain goes up. The stage is dark, just one spot on Gertrude. That’s me, I’m a queen. I’m wearing just this black negligee, very tasteful, of course. I’m sitting on a throne, maybe fixing my hair. Then the music starts, Ravel’s Bolero, soft at first, sorta dreamy and sad. That’s Hamlet’s theme, see; he’s my son. Another spot picks him up. He comes in, dancing slow. He dances over to me, and then he sorta goes down on his knees and holds my hand, feverish, you can tell he’s upset, but kinda wistful.’

  ‘Act three, scene four,’ breathed Kraven.

  ‘Yeah, right. Anyways, that’s when Hamlet’s old man comes in, my first husband. A third spot picks him up. Oh, I didn’t tell you: he’s dead. What he is, he’s a ghost. So he’s got white paint on all over and he’s wearing this white robe. Now his theme begins, “The Anniversary Waltz”. See, what I’ve forgotten is today’s our anniversary. Slowly he takes off his robe; but he does it with dignity, being as he’s a king, and from the Other Side. Then his theme takes over, getting stronger all the time. He begins to sorta dance towards me, in time to the music. Like I said, he’s got this white stuff all over him, even on his you-know. You can tell he’s royal. He’s moving his hips, rubbing his hands up and down his thighs. “O. How we danced. On the night. We were wed. Dee-dum. Dee-dee-dum. Dee-dee-dum. Dee … dee … dummm.” You with me so far, Marty?’