Kraven Images

by Alan Isler

  She swept past him and into the lobby. He could only follow.

  * * *

  THEY EMERGED FROM THE LIFT on the twelfth floor.

  ‘What if he’s not alone right now?’ said Kraven. ‘Don’t you think the decent thing would’ve been to ring up from downstairs first?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Nicholas. You choose the oddest times to exercise your sense of decency. I’m his wife, remember?’

  She knocked on the door. Silence. She knocked again. Aha, the sound of stirring. She knocked a third time. Someone was there, on the other side of the door.

  ‘Yes, what can it be you want? Please to go away.’ It was a woman’s voice, hinting at hysteria.

  Stella gasped. Kraven caught her arm. He raised his voice. ‘Floor porter ’ere mod’m. Shampine and flars, complimongs of the management.’

  ‘A moment, please.’ A brief conference in indistinguishable vocables went on behind the door. ‘Yes, yes, very nice.’

  The door opened slightly. Stella gave it a violent push and marched in. Diotima von Hoden, knocked off balance, fell into a fortuitously placed chair. She sat rubbing her forehead where the door had struck it. She was wearing a man’s striped silk robe tied loosely over her rotundity. Her grey hair frizzed wildly in all directions.

  In the tousled bed, cross-legged, his back straight, sat Robert Poore-Moody. A lighted cigar drooped from his lips. His rounded torso was a forest of tangled black and white fur, through which two flabby hairless breasts, their nipples a delicate pink, protruded. Disordered sheets covered him to the waist. With his arms dropped, the palms of his hands outwards, he resembled an oriental idol.

  ‘Robert,’ said Stella, ‘I don’t know who or what this revolting creature is, but please ask her to leave.’

  Her words had an immediate effect on Poore-Moody. With a groan he pulled the sheet from his waist and threw it over his head. Almost at once a small circle of discoloration appeared at head level. It grew brown, black, and then, out of a lazy spiral of smoke, the glowing tip of Poore-Moody’s cigar broke its way. Stella rushed to the bedside and taking up a pitcher of water from the night table inverted it over her husband’s head. He yelped but remained in place, bolt upright, the damp ghost of a Buddha.

  Kraven watched from the open doorway, reluctant to enter.

  ‘Just one moment, miss.’ Diotima sprang nimbly from the chair and bounded between Stella and the shivering Poore-Moody. ‘Just one bleeding minute, I say. By what right you are bursting in here? There are no laws in England? I think so, miss. By what right you are disturbing our peace? In London there are no bobbies? Beware, I say.’

  ‘Robert!’ Stella’s tone was grim.

  Diotima’s face was now bright red. ‘This is the bleeding limit! I ask you, where is your badge of authority? Who are you? Only answer me that!’

  ‘His wife. I’m Mrs Poore-Moody.’

  Diotima’s elbows stopped in mid-motion. ‘Robby,’ she wailed, ‘Robby, my dear tasty little sausage, is this true, this terrible thing she is saying?’

  The head beneath the sheet nodded. The wilted cigar rose and fell.

  ‘So.’ Diotima dropped her arms to her sides, instantly calm. The mad look left her eyes, the heightened colour her cheeks. ‘I go quietly, it’s a fair cop.’ She went briskly to the closet and gathered together her clothes. ‘A moment to dress, please.’ She made for the bathroom.

  A groan issued from beneath the sheet.

  ‘Robert, come out from under there. And you, Nicholas, for God’s sake come in and close the door.’

  They both did as they were told. This was a Stella new to Kraven, one perhaps known only too well to Poore-Moody. There was a brisk, no-nonsense determination to her, an attitude that would brook no disagreement, an assertiveness that turned grown men into small boys.

  Meanwhile, Kraven was delighted to observe that Poore-Moody looked vile. Diotima must have been working him hard. A heavy stubble accentuated his pallor; his eyes were bloodshot. He glanced at Stella sideways and up. There was a boyish bashfulness to his voice. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Don’t say anything for the moment. Just shake hands with Nicholas here. As soon as that witch of a woman has gone, the three of us are going to have a long talk. Above all, don’t worry. There’s nothing to be ashamed of; everything’s going to be straightened out. But first, shake hands.’

  Poore-Moody obediently held up a hand towards Kraven, who ignored it.

  The door to the bathroom opened. Diotima emerged composed, every inch the sober academic.

  ‘First,’ she began, looking around calmly, ‘I would like to say – ‘But then for the first time she noticed Kraven. Her expression underwent an immediate transformation. ‘Swine!’ she shrieked, leaping nimbly across the room. Before he could prevent her, she struck the startled Kraven a stinging blow across the cheek. ‘Swine! Whoever you are!’ She assumed a boxing stance. Her eyes stormed. ‘Swine!’

  ‘She seems to know you,’ said Stella.

  ‘Never seen her before in my life.’

  ‘A-ha! a-ha! Not know me? A-ha! Not know the Koh-i-Noor? Not know the Gaiety? What next? A-ha!’ Diotima was prancing around making fisted feints at Kraven’s jaw.

  ‘She’s mad then,’ said Stella. ‘Robert, can you do anything with her?’

  ‘Now, now, Didi,’ said Poore-Moody uselessly.

  Kraven, at the centre of Diotima’s circling, felt at once a trifle nervous and more than a trifle foolish.

  But the fight went out of Diotima as swiftly as it had come. She shook her head as if clearing it and released a sigh. Her pose was now that of a gymnast come to rest after a complicated sequence of exercises, legs together, arms at her sides, head slightly bowed. Only her bosom betrayed her recent exertions. She had a word for each of them: ‘Remember me, dear Robby.’ ‘Your claim on him is running out, madam.’ ‘Swine, one fine day we will be bleeding evens-stevens.’ She left.

  ‘Really, Robert, I understand in principle. I mean, I’m aware of your needs, your physiological and your psychological needs. But how could you? With such a creature?’

  ‘Sit down, my dear,’ said Poore-Moody courteously, patting the bed beside him. Stella acceded. There was something about them, it occurred to Kraven, of Victoria and her beloved Albert. No one need doubt who occupied the throne. The Prince Consort turned to the Queen’s gillie: ‘And you, sir – Mr Kraven, isn’t it? There are chairs a-plenty.’ He waved vaguely about him.

  Kraven leaned back, half squatting, against a low sideboard. His studied nonchalance dislodged a thick pink satin scroll. It began slowly, slowly to unfurl. They all watched it, fascinated. It was an old fashioned whalebone corset, replete with laces, a Panzer, a tank, as Opa had once dubbed the variety. In her haste Diotima had forgotten a fundamental item of her costume.

  ‘You ask me for an explanation, Stella. You ask me. You and your… your Nicholas here’ – Poore-Moody gestured dismissively in Kraven’s direction – ‘the two of you follow me to England, no doubt making love all the way, and you ask me for an explanation. My sweet, you never fail to delight and surprise. Where, one wonders, did you learn so much about the art of defence?’ He was absentmindedly playing with his stomach hair, curling it around his finger, releasing it, curling it once more, releasing it. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘That was cruel of me and insulting to you. You deserve better.’

  Kraven, transforming discomfort into a gesture of scorn, shifted from cheek to cheek. The lamp on the sideboard teetered.

  ‘Nicholas, either sit in a chair or stand up. You’ll have the lamp on the floor next.’ Stella was peremptory.

  Kraven stood up and folded his arms across his chest. Stella nodded her approval and returned her attention to her husband.

  ‘How could I? you ask.’ Poore-Moody considered the question. His expression suggested considerable puzzlement. ‘I don’t honestly know. She came to my room a couple of nights ago. There was some kind of a mix-up. She had the right name and
room number but the wrong person. Anyway, we got to talking. She’s something of a scientist, you know, an erotologist. That’s what she called herself. Her name’s Diotima von Hoden. She’s had fascinating adventures all over the globe. You wouldn’t believe half the things she’s done. She claims to have discovered a powerful aphrodisiac, Didi’s Potion. She had a vial of it with her, quite by chance, and she offered me some. You know how these things go. In a spirit of fun I agreed to have a sip. That’s really all I remember. I guess I blacked out.’

  Poore-Moody eyed them with a look of childish innocence. ‘No, I’m not speaking figuratively at all. The fact is, I did black out. And each time I came to – three times, I think, in all – Diotima poured some more of the stuff down my throat. She was just about to give me another dose when you arrived.’

  ‘Thank God we did.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course. But you know, Stella, it’s marvellous stuff just the same. Diotima explained that after the body builds up a level of tolerance one can enjoy all the physical benefits plus the special fillip of full consciousness.’

  ‘What’s it supposed to do?’

  ‘It’s an aphrodisiac, Stella. What d’you suppose it’s supposed to do?’

  ‘But if you were unconscious, how can you possibly know it works?’

  ‘Oh, I know it works.’ Poore-Moody smiled mysteriously.

  Kraven walked over to the windows and examined the view from the twelfth floor. Across the street a few of the magnificent houses built by the Regency nobility still remained. But down at the corner others had been razed to make way for yet another high-rise hotel, aesthetically meretricious, graceless, like the one from which he now contemplated the city of his birth. When he had left for New York there had been no Inn on the Park.

  Behind his back Kraven felt Poore-Moody’s nod in his direction, felt Stella’s eyes on his back, felt the excluding privacy and complicity of husband and wife. He turned to face them.

  ‘Aren’t we forgetting something? Aren’t we forgetting the saintly letter he sent you in New York? The ageing eyes piously fixed on the next world? The monastery endowment? Dolly, Sugar, and Candy? The Scheherezade number in Westchester? I could go on. Your husband is not exactly an innocent victim. Let’s not shed too many tears.’

  ‘Nicholas, how can you be so cruel, so crude?’

  There was something these people knew that he would never understand, certain unwritten rules of behaviour inaccessible to him, refinements of social intercourse to which he was blind. Had he misrepresented Poore-Moody? He had not. Was not Stella this man’s wife? Had he not known that Kraven and Stella had been lovers? He had. One did not hand out blame, of course. But one need not accept it either. Poore-Moody would have been screwing wherever opportunity presented itself whether Kraven and Stella had met or not. More power to him. Kraven hoped that at Poore-Moody’s age he would have the necessary strength. But why did Stella feel that she and Kraven were somehow at fault? And why were they treating Poore-Moody as one convalescing from an embarrassing disease? Surely the old fellow’s healthy relish for a little of what he fancied should ease her residual guilt feelings. One touch of nature made the whole world kin. Or so one would have thought but for the invisible lines that these wealthy alien presences drew.

  ‘I’m at an enormous psychological disadvantage, my dear, naked in bed like this. How can I answer him?’

  ‘But there’s no need to answer him. Nicholas doesn’t stand between us, Robert. He stands with us. Isn’t that right, Nicholas?’

  Silence.

  ‘Nicholas!’ she said sharply.

  ‘Yes, yes.’

  ‘Well then, why not get dressed if it bothers you so? You must be uncomfortable under that wet sheet anyway. We’ll have our talk as soon as you’re ready.’

  ‘But I can’t get out of bed.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Kraven, d’you mind looking out of the window for a moment?’

  Kraven turned his back. Beyond the rooftops he could see the great green expanses of Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens, divided from one another by the curved arm of the glinting, steely Serpentine.

  ‘Just look at that, Stella,’ whispered Poore-Moody hoarsely.

  ‘Good God!’

  ‘I told you Diotima was for real.’

  ‘Jesus Christ!’

  Suddenly the sun, escaping from white fluffed clouds, raced across the green and kissed the water. The serpent’s skin had glittering golden scales.

  ‘Er, Nicholas…’

  Kraven turned even as Poore-Moody covered himself with the sheet again.

  ‘Perhaps we should have our talk a little later. It’s obvious Robert isn’t ready yet. He’s been through a lot. These things take time.’

  ‘I’d like to have a talk with Stella right now, man and wife. Say an hour? Two at most? You understand, Kraven?’ Poore-Moody grinned.

  Kraven looked at Stella. She nodded. Well, they were still man and wife, after all. A last encounter? He would leave them to it.

  Kraven walked across the room. Dignity, that was the ticket.

  ‘So long, Kraven,’ said Poore-Moody cheerfully. ‘See you.’

  * * *

  KRAVEN SAT ONCE MORE IN THE LOUNGE of the English-Speaking Union. Two hours passed very slowly. Hungry, he went out for lunch. She was not yet there when he returned. He strolled around Berkeley Square, strode purposefully down Piccadilly to the Circus, returned to Charles Street. Still no Stella. He settled himself again in the lounge, listened to the variety of accents, mostly American, blindly turned the pages, of Punch. At four o’clock he ordered watercress sandwiches and a pot of tea from the ancient retainer. He went out again, walked up to Oxford Street, over to Marble Arch, down Park Lane, and so back to the Union. No Stella. He sat once more, and attempted the puzzle in The Times. He checked repeatedly to see if she had returned. He set himself the task of producing a condensed version of Paradise Lost in twenty lines, or fewer, coming in at the wire:

  Paradise:

  Enter Vice,

  Satan

  Waitin’.

  Eve falls;

  Adam bawls,

  Falls too.

  What to do?

  Stole fruit;

  Ate loot.

  Man bad,

  God mad.

  No hope?

  How cope?

  Christ is come,

  Man’s chum;

  Dies on Cross,

  Pleases Boss,

  Saves all:

  Lucky Fall!

  He went to Shepherd Market and bought a sandwich and a bottle of beer, sauntered on, returned to the Union. Again, no Stella. At eleven o’clock he was told that the lounge was about to close. He caught a taxi on Curzon Street and asked to be taken to his hotel.

  * * *

  KRAVEN WOKE LATE IN SPITE OF HIMSELF. He washed and dressed hurriedly and dashed out of his hotel. In Tottenham Court Road he hailed a cruising taxi and ordered the driver to Charles Street.

  At the reception desk at the English-Speaking Union, he was told that Mrs Poore-Moody had had all her bags picked up early that morning. She was no longer in residence.

  ‘Did she leave a forwarding address? Where were the bags taken?’

  ‘Ah, that would be telling, wouldn’t it?’ The man viewed Kraven with deep suspicion. ‘May I ask your name, sir?’

  ‘Kraven.’

  The man pulled a slip of paper from beneath the desk and perused it gravely. ‘Would that be Dr Nicholas Kraven, sir?’

  ‘It would.’

  ‘Ah, that’s all right then. I’ve a message for you, sir.’ He read slowly from the slip of paper, ‘“If Dr Nicholas Kraven should call, be so good as to inform him he can reach Mrs Poore-Moody at the Inn on the Park.” I think I can safely tell you now, sir, that that’s where the bags were sent.’

  Depressing news indeed. Kraven turned to go.

  ‘Excuse me, sir. Will you actually be seeing the lady in the near future?’

  ‘I’m g
oing round there now.’

  ‘When madam’s bags were packed for her this morning, a certain item was, most unfortunately, overlooked. The chambermaid found it not half an hour ago. Might I prevail upon you, sir, to convey it to the lady?’

  ‘My pleasure.’

  The man reached under the counter once more. With a fastidious finger and thumb and an expression of sober distaste he offered Kraven a small envelope in which had been sealed a disc-shaped object, in size a little larger than a cosmetics compact. ‘Madam might have need of this.’

  Kraven slipped the envelope into his pocket.

  But if at the English-Speaking Union the news of Stella boded ill, at the Inn on the Park it proved disastrous. Mr and Mrs Poore-Moody had paid their bill and – the clerk consulted his watch – had left the premises within the hour. Where they might have gone the clerk was unable to say, but Mrs Poore-Moody had left a note for a Dr Kraven, the gentleman now before him who had so identified himself. Kraven felt an unhappy tickling in the pit of his stomach. With a rudeness the clerk’s face made manifest, he snatched the note from the polite hand, stuffed it in his pocket, and fled the hotel.

  In Hyde Park, sitting woebegone on the first unoccupied bench he had found, he took out Stella’s letter and read it. It was short.

  Darling Nicholas,

  You still haven’t told me, dummy, where you’re staying. Sorry about yesterday. Things came up. But as you know, my first concern in all of this – our first concern, yours as well as mine, I hope – is Robert and his rehabilitation.

  My plans are changed. Instead of Switzerland, we’re going to Germany, to Heidelberg. Surprise, surprise! Robert and I remember the town fondly from earlier visits. Do you know it at all? The hills of the Odenwald should be dotted with cherry blossoms by now. And of course it’s a university town, peaceful in a delightful medieval way. Coincidentally, it’s the home base of that ghastly woman Robert met at the hotel. He feels, dear sweet soul, that we treated her a bit shabbily. We should look her up, he says, and offer an apology.

  ‘But what about us?’ I hear you saying. Yes, indeed, what about us? Robert’s wounds will take time to heal. Heidelberg offers hope of that, and in the long run my experience there might reap rich rewards for you and me. Be patient, darling.