Kraven Images

by Alan Isler

  ‘All the way.’

  ‘Okay. So now the Ghost kisses me. And when he moves back, I sorta rise from the throne, my lips still glued to his. Then he slips off my negligee, kinda sad, kinda regretful. Y’see, he’s only a ghost, so what can he do? We go into our dance number, slow and easy, suggestive but tasteful. Anyway, Hamlet’s been watching us all this while, still on his knees. You can see he’s mad. He gets up. Then his theme starts in again, getting louder all the time: “BOOM. Baba-baba-baba-BOOM, baba-BOOM.” You can hardly hear “The Anniversary Waltz” any more. Then he dashes over and pulls me from the Ghost’s arms. The Ghost’s spot goes out. He disappears. Then me and Hamlet begin this dance. He takes off his shirt, still dancing. Then he reaches for his tights. Lights out. Curtain.’ She paused.

  ‘Terrific!’ said Kraven. ‘But I thought it was to be an all-girl show.’

  ‘Yeah, well,’ said Dolly. ‘There’s still a few bugs need ironing out.’

  Kraven eyed Candy with real interest. ‘You thought all this up yourself?’

  ‘The basic idea.’ Candy created on her delightful face a mock moue of chaste pride. ‘Of course, the full treatment is Dolly’s. She’s the artiste.’

  Dolly nodded in modest agreement; Candy winked again at Kraven.

  Candy, Kraven was ready to acknowledge, was no bimbo. This stunning young woman whose slovenly posture was itself a thing of beauty had a sense of irony that matched his own. Bardic Follies could take its place honourably alongside Tickety-Boo! Were he not already so fearfully entangled, he might be tempted to get to know her rather better. As it was, he had better go. Besides, he did not have enough cash on him to pay for another round of drinks.

  ‘The hour cometh, and now is,’ said Kraven. ‘Alas, I must go. But it’s been an enormous pleasure meeting you all.’ He got up. ‘Good luck with Bardic Follies.’

  ‘Here, Marty,’ said Dolly, taking a card from her purse and handing it to him. ‘My agent. You can always get in touch.’

  * * *

  KRAVEN LEFT DONOVAN’S and made his way towards home. His spirits were lifted. Whisky and soda and the hermetic peace of Donovan’s had played their part, to be sure, but the most effective tonic had been the encounter with Dolly and Sugar and Candy. Candy is dandy, thought Kraven, modifying the familiar aphorism, and quicker than liquor.

  Had America proved to be the answer to the Nicko problem? America had served him well; he had prospered. He had left behind the retiring, diffident, ineffectual Nicko, had assumed with his new role rather too much, perhaps, of the caddish Marko – to the point that, at fleeting moments of shaming introspection (but moments lately of increasing frequency), he believed himself to have out-Markoed his cousin. He had donned the mask of Marko, and now he feared it had grown to his flesh. ‘Oh Nicholas, you’re such a liar,’ Stella had said to him today. He had no wish to continue as Marko, but could not countenance a return to the Nicko of old. Could not the best of Marko be joined to the best of Nicko? Alas, only Marko, not Nicko, could deal with the current crisis.

  At worst, he had only to give Gabe Princip his Pass and let him go. As for Stella, well, he would lie low for a while. Let her suppose him hot on the trail of Poore-Moody. But did he love her? And Quimby remained a problem. He must not be permitted to reveal what he knew. But how to prevent it? There must be a way. Kraven rallied; he would find it.

  EIGHT

  ON MONDAY MORNING Kraven went back to Mosholu in a mood more cheery than usual. The problems that had seemed so insoluble only yesterday were already meandering, as if under their own volition, towards solution. One had merely to accept the advice an ordinary cab company offered: Sit Back and Relax. A good night’s sleep had made all the difference. Meanwhile, he would be able to cancel the balance of this week’s classes, perhaps even dismiss his students early, today. Yes, while the divinity busily shaped, Kraven would stretch out poolside in the Californian sunshine.

  On his way to his private cell he stuck his head into the departmental office and called out a hearty good morning. Typewriters stopped their busy clatter and three Bronx mommas, the secretarial staff, distinguishable one from the other only by superficial details of dress, lifted peroxided heads from their work. They replied in chorus, their voices twittering with identical inflection, ‘Good morning, Nicholas.’ Mrs Trutitz, their stern directrix, required a more personal, a more intimately concerned greeting. Accordingly, she kept her eyes on her work and remained silent.

  ‘How’s it going, Bella?’ said Kraven gallantly.

  Bella Trutitz indicated an area between the tip of her altered nose and her frowning forehead. ‘We’ve been up to here all morning.’ She rapped sharply on her desk. Her girls must get back to work. The typewriters resumed their clattering. ‘I dropped a note in your box, Nicholas. Ari wants to see you as soon as you have a moment.’

  Kraven had never been able to accustom himself to this familiarity of address. He winced, offended in his sense of hierarchy, of degree. ‘How about right now? Is he free?’

  ‘I think so. Just a minute.’ She got up, banging her knee on the desk as she did so. She shot him a look of mingled agony, disappointment and reproach but limped courageously to the Chairman’s door, whereon, well mannered in spite of it all, she knocked before entering.

  Kraven spent the few seconds of her absence humming a private hum, ‘La donna e mobile’.

  The door opened and Mrs Trutitz reappeared. ‘It’s okay, you can go in. Only, do me a favour, don’t keep him too long. He’s got a full schedule today.’ She let out a sudden groan, bent over to clutch her knee, and in that awkward position hopped the necessary paces back to her seat. ‘My God, I think it’s swelling!’

  ‘I’ll just toddle on in then,’ said Kraven cheerily. ‘Mustn’t keep the Benign Despot waiting.’

  Papa Doc was stretched out on his chair, his hands clutching one another behind his neck, his sneakered feet, raised and crossed, resting on his desk. He looked like a large sack of potatoes carelessly dumped there and turned into a crude effigy, at its top a white mask upon which some unskilled child had smudged features in coal dust, at its bottom filthy sneakers to suggest feet. Also on the desk were a mug of coffee, a half-finished danish, and, turned towards the visitor, a colour photograph of wife and daughter smiling inanely.

  ‘I told you the impression you made on Diotima, right? Right on, guy. Can’t hurt to have the hallowed name of Mosholu carried back to the Old World’s seats of learning. You really turned her on.’

  ‘Bella said you wanted to see me.’

  ‘I’ve already had two phone calls about you, one from Dillinger, the other from Pio Nono. I’ll say this for you, Nick, no one can accuse you of being too communicative.’

  ‘Ah, you mean Los Angeles. It all seemed rather iffy, or I’d have mentioned it to you.’

  ‘No hard feelings, Nikos. Christ, I’m tickled pink.’ The lower part of Papa Doc’s mask opened to represent a smile. ‘Congratulations. According to the Dill, you’ve made the discovery of the century.’ He leaned across his desk and gave a damp paw to Kraven, who shook it briefly. ‘I didn’t know you were into the Middle Ages.’

  ‘I try not to be too narrow in my focus.’

  ‘Right on, my view exactly. Anyway, Pio Nono’s hot to have another vexilliarus regis marching westward, expects departmental co-operation, secretarial help should you need it, whatever. Now, is there anything I can do to speed the scholar on his way?’

  ‘Not a thing, Ari.’

  ‘You sure? Speak up, Nick, now’s the moment. This is the thin edge of the wedge, you know. You’re my precedent. We’ll get our finger in the pie yet. We’re an active department but, hell, let’s face it, largely invisible. Until now. The limelight’s beginning to turn in this direction at last, and with the limelight comes the gravy. The vibes are good, Nikos, very good. You need anything, you got it.’

  Kraven shook his head.

  Papa Doc struggled to his feet, indicating the interview was at an end.


  ‘About Quimby, Ari.’

  ‘No problem, fella, Pio Nono already thought of that. You’re off the hook.’ Papa Doc poked himself in mid-gut. ‘01’ Ceece Quimby is gonna be introduced by Papadakis himself.’

  ‘Splendid. Er, listen, Ari, d’you suppose you could avoid saying anything about me to the old fellow?’

  ‘Why the hell should I do that?’ Papa Doc’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘No good reason. I just thought I’d like to surprise him with a phone call. Sentimental rubbish, I suppose. It was Dillinger’s idea, actually. He thought the old man might get a kick out of a transcontinental call from a former pupil, out of the blue, as it were. He said Dean Pioggi agreed with him. Still, if you think otherwise…’

  ‘No problem, guy, that’s a great idea,’ said Papa Doc hastily. ‘But what if he asks after you?’

  ‘Well, in that case…’

  ‘No problem. Anything of a personal nature you can tell me about him, anything that might punch up my opening remarks? You know, like what he likes?’

  ‘He likes parsnips, the raunchier passages in Marlowe’s Hero and Leander, and young plump male buttocks.’

  Papa Doc’s grin was sickly. He walked Kraven to the door, his arm around his shoulder. ‘You know, Nicko, I have a dream …’ His voice trembled. ‘I have a dream…’ He paused at the door, his hand on the knob. ‘Fella, there’s a helluva lot riding on you, I want you to know that. Don’t screw up.’

  Kraven went on his way humming a cheerful hum. The Shaper was busily shaping. Sit Back and Relax.

  * * *

  KRAVEN ENTERED THE LECTURE HALL BRISKLY, but he broke step when he saw waiting before his lectern the venerable Feibelman. The old man was brimming with excitement, his spirit irrepressible. He stood rocking backwards and forwards as if in prayer, his knees bent, his back curved, his eyes closed. But when he heard Kraven before him, he popped his eyes open and straightened his back. There was a grin on his face that Kraven found disturbing.

  ‘Perfessor, you could maybe spare me a minute?’

  Kraven looked at his watch. ‘Sorry, no, it’ll have to wait. Find your seat, Mr Feibelman.’

  Despondent, the old man turned and slouched off.

  Kraven, at his lectern, surveyed his class. A representative sampling. Antonia Anstruther was in her place, impassive and exposed as usual. Over there sat the wretched Hakim, a plagiarist, neatly attired in a suit of quiet grey, his rich silk tie a paean to elegant taste. Princip, as expected, had not shown up. As Kraven’s wandering gaze passed over Giulietta Corombona, she raised an inquisitive eyebrow and shrugged. His eye moved on without pause.

  Kraven looked at the grinning faces before him and knew that today’s class would not last long.

  He told them of the Institute of Medieval and Renaissance Studies, of the unexpected call to address an august assemblage, of his commitment to scholarship and to their alma mater. He regretted the necessary cancellation of classes but knew that they would understand. When the trumpet sounded its brazen call, they would expect to find him in the van. They would all meet again one week from today, in any case, by which time they would have read Macbeth. Unhappily, he would have to cancel the balance of today’s lecture, last-minute arrangements requiring his attention. ‘Are there any questions?’

  Mr Feibelman raised his hand.

  Kraven nodded and pointed.

  ‘Before you go, sir, you should be so good: what was it Lear saw on Cordelia’s lips?’

  ‘Ah yes, our little cliffhanger of last Thursday. Good for you, Mr Feibelman.’

  ‘Nu?’

  ‘I’m inclined to let that crucial matter hang, if only to make sure you all return next Monday.’ He paused for the expected titter and was not disappointed. He created a warm smile. ‘But I’ll leave you with a clue. Cordelia was hanged, remember. What problem for her soul would her constricted throat create? Ah, I see that for some of you the light has turned on.’ Kraven saw nothing of the kind.

  He gathered together his precious lecture sheets and made for the door. Feibelman and Giulietta, trailing after, met him there. Kraven paused for his petitioners. ‘Please make arrangements with Mrs Trutitz to see me immediately after my return, but as for now, I’m afraid I must be off.’ And Kraven fled, panting for a blessed moment of quality time in the privacy of his tin cell.

  * * *

  THE SOOTHING CLUTTER at once embraced him. The blinds were drawn, the lighting dim. A mild aroma of book decay from the burgeoning shelves gently tickled his nostrils. The chaise longue beckoned, it yearned towards him, but he wanted first to sort through the bundle of mail he had picked up on his way back, and so he sat at his desk, rapidly discarding, piece by piece, the mass of college junk that always accumulated, unsolicited, unwanted, in his mailbox. At last he came to a fat manila envelope from the History Department. Ah, Dillinger had been as good as his word. Here was his ticket of leave. He weighed the envelope in his hand. It was a masterstroke of the shaping divinity that he should be absent during Quimby’s visit. If Papa Doc could be relied on to hold his tongue, then the last of the Kravens had weathered another demonic tempest, flags flying, the proud vessel tacking gaily to port.

  He opened the envelope and found within it a thick brochure of the Los Angeles Conference, maps of Westwood and environs, an application for optional side-trips to Disneyland, the Getty Museum and the Columbia Pictures studios, a voucher for a round-trip airline ticket, and a cheque to cover incidental expenses. There was also a brief note: ‘You were right about the Gryllus, of course. Tamara Grieben, my secretary, is taking care of the details of the trip. By the way, we’re staying at the Bel-Air, not those tacky hostelries in the brochure, so pack your grip accordingly. Let Tamara know if there’s anything you need. See you in LA. John.’ One must take his hat off to Dillinger. The man knew how to parlay scholarship into la dolce vita.

  Idly Kraven turned the pages of the conference brochure. Here was the Arthurian Section. Mosholu’s Dillinger was to open with ‘New Light on Camelot’; Harvard’s Terence Hill was to respond with ‘Old Wine in New Bottles?’ Kraven flipped on. ‘The Babylonian Captivity and Proto-Protestantism: A Reassessment,’ ‘The Maid of Orleans and the Limits of Medical Inquiry,’ ‘The European Market for Levantine Manuscripts, 1300–1450’. All this beneath the Californian sun and within a stone’s throw of the Pacific.

  The air-ticket voucher, falling from the travel kit, caught his attention. He picked it up. What was this? Destination: London, England. Purpose: Conference of the Royal Arthurian Antiquities Institute, Clerihew College, London University. Bloody hell! Dillinger’s efficiency extended no further than his secretary, who had got him down for the wrong conference. The Royal Arthurian was to meet in the following week, as Dillinger himself had told him. Had it not even occurred to Tamara Grieben that a brochure for Los Angeles and a ticket for London were incompatible?

  He had long since abandoned hope that life could be simple. But why must it be daily twisted and knotted by the well-meaning interference of the feeble-minded? If he hoped to straighten out this particular stupidity, he would himself have to go to the History Department. Yes, he would have to make the trek across campus and confront Mrs Grieben with the irrefutable evidence of her idiocy. It was fortunate indeed that he had caught her error in time. England in April? Not while the warm sunshine, the palm trees, the luxurious pool at the Bel-Air beckoned.

  There was a knock at the door. Kraven, upset and not yet thinking clearly, called out, ‘Come in.’ The door opened. A grinning Feibelman stood there. ‘Yoo-hoo, it’s me.’

  Kraven had almost convinced himself that he alone had discovered in Gryllus the proof that Merlin was a Jew. But there still remained a small and dwindling area in his mind that acknowledged Feibelman’s primacy. The old man deserved a hearing. ‘As you see, I’m quite busy, Mr Feibelman. But I can spare you a couple of minutes. What is it?’

  ‘What I wanted to tell you this morning, Perfessor, was you wouldn’t see m
e any more this week.’ Feibelman advanced into the room and sat himself upon the chaise longue. ‘But after what you said in class, looks like I’m gonna see you after all, in Westwood yet. How about that?’

  Kraven’s stomach gave an unpleasant lurch. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Have I got a son-in-law! You wouldn’t believe. A big person in Boston, a doctor, a specialist, ear, nose and throat, my daughter Sharon’s his wife. And he has a patient. Who should he be? Perfessor Terence Hill, the Harvard man, Mr Middle Ages, I don’t have to tell you.’

  Kraven began to drown beneath Feibelman’s grin. In his stomach there burned a poisonous mineral. ‘Go on.’

  ‘A long story short, Morris happens to mention to Perfessor Hill my theory. Poor feller, he’s got inflammation of the inner ear, which, you can imagine, is painful. No problem, don’t worry, Morris knows right away what to do. What happens? This weekend Morris arranges on the telephone a three-way conversation, me, the perfessor, and Morris and Sharon.’ Feibelman frowned. ‘I don’t want you should take offence. In scholarship there’s room for many opinions. But in Harvard it’s possible Merlin is a Jew. So Perfessor Hill suggests maybe I should fly out to the conference. When it’s his turn to speak, he’s gonna give me a few minutes of his time. In particular, he says, he wants Perfessor Dillinger to hear what I have to say. So what you think? Not bad for an old man.’

  Kraven, pale and in a cold sweat, feared he would puke.

  ‘Sharon, meanwhile, is calling all over LA, making sure I get kosher meals. If I tell her my own perfessor’s gonna be there, don’t worry, she’s gonna look out for you too. Listen, kosher food’s not so bad. Anyway, I thought you should know.’