Kraven Images

by Alan Isler

  Kraven swallowed bile. ‘Congratulations, Mr Feibelman.’

  Feibelman got up. ‘By the way, naturally I’m interested, what you gonna talk about? That I don’t wanna miss.’

  ‘Mustn’t tip my hand,’ said Kraven. ‘Wait and see.’

  ‘Looks like you got yourself another customer,’ said Feibelman at the door. ‘Hiya, kid.’

  The voluptuous Giulietta Corombona stood waiting.

  ‘I’m sorry, Miss Corombona,’ said Kraven in a modulated tone, ‘but I meant what I said. No conferences until I return.’

  She grinned warmly at him and sashayed to the chaise longue. She was, thought Kraven, a casting director’s dream of Carmen, dark, damp, seductive, impudent, confident of her power. He sighed and closed the door. He would save more time by listening to her than by attempting to get rid of her.

  ‘Be brief, Miss Corombona.’

  ‘I’m kinda worried about my grade inna course.’

  ‘That’s scarcely surprising. In your place, so would I be.’

  ‘I’d do anything to get an A, know what I mean? Anything.’ She winked.

  ‘An A is perhaps rather out of your reach at this point, my dear. What is it so far, two Fs and a D? But it would help if you started to read the plays, perhaps contributed your mite to class discussion.’

  Giulietta ran her hand slowly up her leg, taking with her enough of her skirt to reveal a wealth of thigh. ‘No, I mean you just like tell me what you want, Vietnamese massage, round the world, leather and whips, nursery romp…’ She parted her legs slightly, winked once more, and inflated another pink sphere. ‘Shit, I know education’s important. Last term I made the fucking Dean’s List. All you gotta do, you tell me how you like it.’

  ‘I think, Miss Corombona, you had better leave.’

  She sat up smartly, offended, and began to dig around in her school bag. ‘You know what this is?’ She held in her hand a scrap of Aegean blue. ‘You’re nothing special. Gabe told me about you and Nome Berkowitz yesterday. This is from Gabe’s personal collection. He told me to bring it along. You gotta use it, he said, use it. Now all I gotta do is rip my T-shirt, yell “Rape!” you’ll be outta here so fast you’ll think you slipped on vaginal jelly.’ She put Nimuë’s panties back in her bag. ‘I just bet, one way or another, my grade’s gonna zoom, right?’ She closed her eyes and kissed the air.

  A good commander knows when to call retreat. Kraven sighed. ‘Perhaps we can hope for a better grade by the end of the semester. We’ll talk again after my return from Los Angeles.’

  ‘I’ll be waiting for you.’ She reached for her bag and stood up.

  The door closed behind her. Kraven collapsed into his chair.

  How had it happened? Only minutes before, he had been en route to Los Angeles, his fingers as good as curling around an icy plastic tumbler, the first drink of his flight. What folly, what utter folly! He had paid too little heed to the cryptic warnings of anti-Kraven forces, had believed himself safe from demonic hostility in the New World. Hubris had brought him down. His eyes stung; he flushed; he gulped. What trick, what device, what starting-hole canst thou now find out, to hide thee from this open and apparent shame?

  He picked up his travel voucher, intending to tear it in pieces, this bitterly ironic icon of his lost world, when he experienced a sudden epiphany. Oh, Kraven of little faith! Was it not likely that the Shaper himself had shown his hand in the apparent error of Tamara Grieben? He struck his forehead after the admired manner of Diotima von Hoden. And was not the Shaper’s hand resolved into a finger pointing to London? Likely? No, it was certain.

  What a fool he had been! Looked at from his new vantage of understanding, the last few days had presented him with a series of promptings, of urgings, each a little stronger than the last. Kraven was able to see, albeit dimly, a hint of the Great Artificer’s plan. In the deep backward and abysm of time, something was shaping. His destiny called him; he would not shrink. Gallant Kraven would run to meet his future as another into a lover’s arms. Tonight. There must be no hesitation.

  Airline voucher in hand, Kraven left his office. Eastward ho!

  Part Two

  London

  Mid to Late Spring, 1974

  NINE

  TO OUTWARD APPEARANCE at least Aunt Cicely’s house was unchanged from the days when it was her father’s. A wooden gate bisected precisely the tall, well-trimmed hedge that marked off the property from the public pavement. From the gate a crazy-paving path snaked its way towards the arched front door. A robust English lawn on either side of the path led to border flowerbeds and rockeries and again to tall, well-trimmed hedges, these hiding Grandpa Blum’s front garden from the unwanted admiration of neighbours. The house itself was massive, three storeys, not counting the attic floor, and it was built in mock-Tudor style, white stucco over brick, non-functional aged beams between the floors, a plethora of quaint brick chimneys, leaded-light windows.

  Kraven stood at the door and rang the bell. Of the rain that had greeted him at Heathrow there was no longer a trace; the sky, a lively blue, was punctuated here and there by friendly puffs of white cloud. He rang the bell again and heard footsteps. The door opened.

  ‘Hello, Aunt Cicely.’

  There was a small shriek. ‘Nicholas! Is it really you? I can’t believe it! Come in, come in, do!’

  This was his Aunt Cicely all right but a Cicely strangely altered. In the decade since last he had seen her she had shed ten years. She had put on weight; she was almost plump. And what had become of the wild mop of grey hair combed before breakfast and then allowed to follow its will? Cicely’s hair was now a rich reddish brown, modishly cut, and softly shaped. She was wearing cosmetics. Instead of the shapeless ‘sensible’ tweeds of yore, she had on a dress of colourful heavy silk.

  ‘You look absolutely spiffing!’

  ‘Ah, you rogue,’ she said, clearly delighted, ‘just like your father.’ She hugged him. ‘But what on earth has brought you here like this, so unexpectedly? Oh, no! Not my letter? How thoughtless of me! There was nothing urgent, nothing at all. I’m getting on, you know, and so there were things I wanted to talk about.’

  Ah, but the letter had been one of the Divine Shaper’s promptings. ‘Not to worry. I’ve plenty of work to do at the British Library. I would have come anyway in the summer. Your letter merely focused my attention. Why wait? I thought. Luckily, a junior colleague was able to cover my lectures.’

  ‘It’s worked out well for you, then, this American adventure?’

  ‘Pretty well. We can’t expect total success. You remember Onkel Ferri and his demons?’

  ‘Indeed I do. A kindly man, if a bit odd, like all your lot.’

  ‘Look, I don’t suppose you could put me up for the night? I’ll book into a hotel tomorrow.’

  ‘No trouble at all. One of the spare bedrooms is all right. A bit damp, I expect, but if it’s only for the night, it’ll do. We can have it airing all day. Mr Fishbane’s in Grandpa’s old room, or you could have that.’

  ‘Mr Fishbane?’

  ‘How silly of me! You don’t know, how could you?’ For a moment she giggled, her hands held girlishly over her mouth, her eyelids lowered. ‘I have a boarder now, what a lark, eh? An elderly gentleman, by your standards, I suppose. We hit it off the moment we met, you know how such things sometimes go. And so you see, I’ve got a boarder.’ She lowered her eyes modestly. ‘He’s not actually a boarder, of course. No, he’s my friend, is Mr Fishbane, my special friend. It’s made such a difference.’

  ‘Well, perhaps it’s too inconvenient….’

  ‘Nonsense, won’t hear of it, not to worry. Besides, you’re here because of my letter – with Mr Fishbane’s connivance, as you’ve probably already guessed. But come along, you simply must meet him. You’ll like him, I know. Well, anybody would.’ She took her nephew by the hand and led him to the back of the house, through the scullery and into the kitchen.

  In a rocking chair before the fire sat Mr Fishb
ane, old and diminutive, eating from a bowl of porridge that he held hugged to his chest, his head bent, the tip of his beaked nose almost in the milk. He wore a black waistcoat, unbuttoned, over a striped shirt whose detachable collar was elsewhere. A tartan shawl draped over his shoulders and tartan slippers depending wanly from his toes proclaimed him at once a Campbell and a McTavish. As they entered the kitchen, he looked up from his bowl: a thin sharp face from which red-rimmed eyes glittered oddly, as if covered in translucent webbing.

  ‘Percy, you’ll never guess! Look who it is. My nephew Nicholas, come to pay us a visit. Our letter certainly did the trick, didn’t it?’

  ‘Hiya, kiddo!’

  ‘Mr Fishbane lived in America for many years.’

  ‘Lewissohn Stadium, Third Avenue El, Ebbets Field,’ said Mr Fishbane. ‘Know New York like the back of me hand.’

  ‘Sit down, Nicholas, over there, at the table. Did you have a good flight? You must be exhausted. I’ll get you something to eat.’

  ‘Don’t trouble, I’m not in the least hungry.’

  ‘Rustle him up some toast. And a pot a tea.’ To still all protest, Fishbane held one hand with the flat of the palm towards Kraven. ‘No trouble, none at all.’ With his other hand he offered his empty bowl vaguely in the direction of Aunt Cicely, who took it from him, smiling proudly, and carried it off into the scullery. He had not once taken his glittery eyes off Kraven. ‘Okey-dokey, so you’re fresh in from the good old Hew Hess of Hay, right, mac?’

  ‘Aunt Cicely’s letter suggested urgency…’

  ‘Course, they did put down the Atlantic Cable a few years ago, or I miss my guess. A tootle on the blower would’ve done, would’ve done nicely.’ Fishbane removed a cigarette from its hiding place behind his ear and placed it between his lips, from which it hung limply and soon wetly.

  ‘Besides, I have the odd item to check at the British Library…’

  ‘I suppose you know the famous Karl Marx chair? You haven’t actually sat in it, have you?’

  ‘There is no Karl Marx chair, in point of fact. It’s something of a myth.’

  ‘Ah, yes, well,’ sneered Fishbane. ‘Something to keep the proletariat quiet, no doubt.’ He grinned in the manner of a debater who has scored a most telling point. ‘Ever been to Highgate Cemetery? It’s not far from here, worth a visit. He’s buried there, y’know – unless that turns out to be a myth too.’

  Into the kitchen came Aunt Cicely, bearing tea and toast. Fishbane placed his gnarled claws on the arms of the rocking chair and shot himself energetically to his feet. Once on these he exercised his elbows for a moment, strutted like a bantam rooster to the table, and hopped on to a chair opposite Kraven, to whom he said courteously, ‘Everything jake, bub?’

  ‘Oh, quite.’

  Thus assured, Fishbane bent over his toast and began to gobble.

  ‘I’ll leave the two of you to a nice chat,’ said Aunt Cicely. ‘Nicko’s room needs airing, Percy. I’m putting him in the one next to yours.’

  Fishbane, busily chewing, waved his knife at her, as who should say, by all means, not to worry on my account.

  They ate in silence, or, if not in silence, then without words.

  Kraven looked out of the window. It was beginning to cloud up again. Low black clouds against a background of higher grey were racing in rapidly from the west. The leaves on the trees had begun to stir in anticipation of a weather change. And yet the sun still shone from the faultless blue that filled the rest of the sky. Rain or no rain, he would have to go out. He felt himself to be an intruder in the established domestic arrangements of others.

  The old man pushed away his plate and opened the trouser button at his waist. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘let’s hear from the intellectual élite, let’s have the view from the academy.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘Don’t give me that. We know all about the protests here, the peace marches, the sit-ins. You’ve got a society on the verge of collapse there, feller. Well, anyone with half a brain knew it was coming. You can’t go on beating down the bleeding masses year in year out and not expect an explosion.’

  ‘I’ve rather kept my nose out of politics.’

  ‘Have you, indeed? No doubt, no doubt. Not all of us were so lucky. Yours everso truly ain’t been back in more’n twenty years. Got my bleeding arse out while the going was good. Used to write a column for The Workers’ Trumpet, you’ve heard of that democratic organ, no doubt. Last of the dailies to tell the unvarnished truth?’

  ‘What made you leave? Homesickness?’

  ‘Un-American Activities Committee. Remember the fucker with the shit-eating grin? The Feds were after my ass.’

  ‘Good lord, what on earth for?’

  ‘That would be telling, wouldn’t it?’ Fishbane placed a horny finger at the side of his nose and gave a conspirator’s wink. ‘I won’t say I carried a certain card, but I won’t say I didn’t have a card at all.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Oh, you do, do you?’ said Fishbane angrily. ‘The bleeding Feds thought they saw too. You can’t carve up a man’s life like it was a salami. What I was looking for was justice, that’s all. That’s why I wrote for the Trumpet. We didn’t want to overthrow the bleeding guv’ment. All we wanted was a fair shake for the ordinary stiff.’

  ‘Good for you.’

  ‘Ah, yes, well,’ said Fishbane, mollified.

  Sounds from the scullery told them of Aunt Cicely’s return. Fishbane, never moving his glittery eyes off Kraven, moved his mouth to the scullery side of his face and raised his voice: ‘That you, Ciss?’

  ‘Here I am,’ said Aunt Cicely genially, joining them.

  ‘Interesting feller, your nephew, Ciss, very interesting. Course, he doesn’t have the commitment you and me’s got. He doesn’t say much, either, but I can tell he’s got a lot on the ball.’

  ‘I opened the window a bit and put on the electric fire, Nicholas, but I don’t think the bed should be made up yet. If you need to lie down, you’d better use my room, at least until yours dries out.’

  ‘Thanks awfully, Aunt Cicely.’

  ‘Thenks hawfully, Ornt Cicely,’ mouthed Fishbane sotto voce.

  ‘I’m not tired, actually. Thought I’d walk around London for a bit.’

  ‘La-dee-da,’ mouthed Fishbane.

  ‘But, Nicholas, we’ve oodles to talk about.’

  ‘Aw, there’s plenty of time for that. The kid’s on vacation. Let him take in the sights. Am I right, feller?’

  ‘Right as rain.’

  The first fat drops were, in fact, at that very moment spattering the windowpane.

  * * *

  THE RAIN WAS BEGINNING TO LET UP. It was now early evening and Kraven had walked miles, a compulsive meandering trek through the maze of London. He was no longer aware of being abroad, had long since given over directional control to his feet. The city had sunk with the damp into his bones, claiming him once more. His New York self was otherwhere.

  Kraven had pursued a path that twisted and looped around the city and often turned in upon itself. Now he had just emerged from New Bond Street and was making for Oxford Circus. Why, he could not have said. He was wretchedly tired and yet slogged on, walking on the cushions of raw, exquisitely painful blisters. But he would not think of quitting. Indeed, he was by now incapable of any coherent thought at all. His mind was a whirl of fragments, the multitudinous chaotic elements of his own life aloft in riotous dance with his impressions of the city, his red-rimmed eyes snapping scene after scene and tossing the shots into the mental mêlée. Wincing, and striving to smile as he winced, Kraven limped on.

  Oxford Street itself had fallen on evil days, a seediness and a greyness that the lowering skies and the wind that whipped and skirled the paper rubbish about the pavements did nothing to mitigate. The grand old department stores, or some of them, fought a rearguard action against the loss of grace, but civility and elegance had fled elsewhere. Their strong fortress in Mayfair remained, to be sure, a
s did a few ill-defended redoubts in Regent Street, Jermyn Street and Piccadilly. But by and large they had pitched their standards to the south and west, in Kensington, in Knightsbridge, in Sloane Street, in the Brompton Road. Foreigners, of whom there was, it seemed to Kraven, an unconscionable number in London, jostling everywhere, babbling in their frenetic languages, peering at maps, puzzling at buildings and plaques and statues, foreigners actually photographed one another outside Harrods. Kraven had seen them do it.

  But Oxford Street, though more crowded than ever during business hours, though swarming with tourists, had become honky-tonk. It was a blaring line of fast-food bars, liquor stores, jeans outlets, employment agencies, pawnbrokers, shoe shops. London had ceded Oxford Street to the Princips and Corombonas, native and foreign, the disorderly and unspeakable young, ceded it along with Piccadilly Circus, Leicester Square, Shaftesbury Avenue. Gone, all gone… Regent Street was going, and Lower Regent Street, and the Haymarket. Kraven turned south and then west, making for Hyde Park Corner.

  But perhaps this was wisdom’s way, a deliberate plan of containment: confine them here, here, and here. Meanwhile, the city was cleaner than Kraven remembered it, soot-free. And in this season the trees were in bud, blossom and leaf: London was green. And in the odd moments between rain showers when the clouds had parted, the city, washed and bleached, sparkled.

  He turned off Piccadilly and on to Old Park Lane. It was now that his feet gave up. Quite simply, he could walk no more. Just ahead of him was the Inn on the Park. Perhaps a drink would lift his spirits. As he turned into the driveway, a taxi wheeled smartly in front of him, its wheels sending up a filthy spray. He leaped back heroically, wincing on aching feet, and spared himself a dousing. Meanwhile, a doorman in a truncated top hat stepped up smartly to the taxi and opened its door.

  First to appear was a long, elegantly shaped leg, held in the air for a second, the toe pointing downward; then the head, beautiful and adorned with a blonde afro, smiling unseeingly left and right at an assumed audience; and then the rest of her, descending with a delicious wriggle and a sharp bump. To the doorman who had assisted her she blew a kiss. It was Dolly Divine. Kraven was on the point of calling to her when he saw a second figure scramble out of the taxi, a figure that shook him out of his weariness and brought a smile to his lips. For there, paying off the driver, was none other than Robert Poore-Moody. Kraven stepped behind a pillar and stared at him, hardly able to credit his eyes. But it was, without question, Stella’s husband, a man who himself, evidently, was a victim of demons. Here, then, was Dolly’s angel, the mysterious Bobby. Well, Kraven had promised Stella he would find Poore-Moody and, by God, he had found him.