Kraven Images (20 page)

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, as 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.

Poore-Moody followed Dolly into the lobby; Kraven at a safe distance followed Poore-Moody. Once inside, Dolly took the old man possessively by the arm, and together they climbed the stairs to the mezzanine, she towering above him. Kraven watched as Dolly bent over Poore-Moody and kissed him on the top of his head. Poore-Moody seized her hand, held it to his heart for a moment, then kissed it passionately, and at last, reluctantly, let it go. He went to the lift. She stood where he had left her, waving to him until the lift doors closed.

‘Dolly!’ said Kraven then, stepping forward.

She turned, looked at him myopically for a moment, then grinned. ‘Gee, look who’s here. Hi, Marty.’

‘So how’s the Big Time?’

She frowned. ‘Maybe not so hot.’

‘Not lost your angel, I hope.’

‘Nothing like that. You got a minute? I’m supposed to be meeting the girls inside. Come say hallo.’

Kraven looked at his watch. He was anxious to send off a telegram to Stella; on the other hand, he rather wanted to see Candy again. ‘Well, just for a minute.’

He accompanied Dolly to the bar lounge. At the entrance she paused and surveyed the room, which at that hour was quite full. Sugar Plum, seated at one of the tables, waved to her. Dolly waved back and ground her way across. The muted hum in the room ceased; all eyes, it seemed, followed her progress. She smiled and nodded unseeingly at her audience.

‘Candy not here yet?’ said Dolly. ‘Look who I found.’

‘Well hi, Marty.’ Sugar seemed no more surprised to see him than had Dolly. Perhaps such encounters were the norm in the show-business world.

‘Hi yourself.’

Kraven and Dolly sat down and the room’s hum resumed.

‘How’d it go? How’d you and Bobby make out?’ said Sugar.

‘No need to break out the champagne,’ said Dolly glumly. ‘I told you not to get your hopes up.’ She sighed.

‘Oh no, Dolly,’ said Sugar. ‘What happened?’

‘Bobby’s got these theatrical contacts over here, big shots,’ Dolly explained to Kraven. ‘That’s where we were today. Feeling them out, seeing if they’d bite.’ She turned to Sugar. ‘Not a chance,’ she said. ‘The Royal Shakespeare don’t wanna touch it, not even if Bobby agrees to take the loss. Y’know, at first they thought we was just kidding. “Remarkable sense of humour, old boy!” They said maybe somewheres in the boonies, like maybe Harrogate, maybe. In the off-season. Only maybe. Well, I’ll say this for Bobby: he’s loyal. He told them where they could shove it.’

‘Aw, gee, Dolly’ said Sugar.

‘I told Bobby maybe I should consider the boonies. I mean, what the heck. We have a hit up there, we can always open in London later. But you know Bobby. I open in the West End or I don’t open.’

‘So what now?’ asked Kraven.

Dolly shrugged. ‘We’re looking for a new vehicle. Find a vehicle, says Bobby, and he’ll take care of the rest. He says I’m a natural for musical comedy. Could be he’s right. He didn’t get to be a mult-eye millionaire just by whistling Dixie.’

Kraven fought to keep his eyes open.

‘I know Bobby don’t like me showing my whatsis around,’ Dolly was saying. ‘Men get kinda possessive, no offence, Marty. So maybe that’s why he’s talking musical comedy. I take his advice, that’s a factor I gotta consider.’

‘You ain’t giving up on the
Follies
, are ya, Dolly?’ wailed Sugar. ‘What about me?’ She turned to Kraven. ‘There’s this great number where all’s I’m wearing’s just these two itty-bitty snakes. Y’know, I’m this Egyptian queen?’

‘
Antony and Cleopatra?
’ said Kraven.

‘Yeah, that’s it, that’s the one. Dolly promised.’

‘Bobby’s doing his best,’ said Dolly. ‘He’s still got a couple a contacts.’

A gloom was beginning to settle, however. To Kraven, comfortably seated in the warmth of the Inn on the Park, the exhaustion of his hours-long London wanderings had returned. His eyelids were unbearably heavy. ‘Cheer up, girls,’ he said. ‘
Bardic Follies
is too big an idea to disappear. Someone will pick it up. Maybe Paris, West Berlin.’ He struggled to his feet.

‘You leaving?’ said Dolly. ‘Candy’ll be here any minute. Let’s have a drink.’

‘Candy thought you were really cute,’ said Sugar.

‘C’mon now, Sugar!’ admonished Dolly.

The news pleased Kraven, even excited him. But he had Underground miles to go before he slept. And there was still a telegram to be sent to Stella. ‘You’re staying here yet a while, aren’t you? Good. Tell Candy how sorry I am I missed her. I’ll be in touch. Please tell her that.’

‘See ya,’ said Dolly and Sugar.

* * *

DARLING STELLA, HAVE LOCATED ERRANT MONK IN COMPANY OF THREE, REPEAT THREE, UNFROCKED NUNS. FRA ROBERTO STAYING AT INN ON THE PARK, LONDON. SUSPECT HERESY. WIRE INSTRUCTIONS C/O AMEX, HAYMARKET. NICHOLAS.

* * *

KRAVEN FOUND IT DIFFICULT TO FALL ASLEEP. Aunt Cicely’s efforts to dry out the room had produced an equatorial climate, the Matto Grosso in the rainy season. The air was hot, humid, unbreathable; the room stank of jungle rot. He lay naked on the bed, turning now to this side, now to that, his body wet, a helpless surface for condensation.

Through the steaming jungle he now flew, flitting, darting, away, away, through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. The slap-slap-slap of slippers going past his door returned him to his sole self. The door to Fishbane’s room opened and closed. A bed creaked and creaked again. The unmistakable sound of soft flesh making violent contact with soft flesh announced itself.

The creaking, now rhythmical, began slowly but soon picked up speed. Grunts.

Kraven threw his pillow over his head.

A sharp cry.

‘O Percy, o Percy, o Perce-erce-erce-eeeEEE!’

‘Cock-a-doodle-doo! Cock-a-doodle-doo!’

Silence.

Kraven fell at last into a fitful sleep.

‘He forced me,’ Nimuë said bravely, ‘to engage in practices the vilest and the most perverse, acts that bring a blush in recollection to modesty’s fair cheek. What cared he for maidenly innocence? What cared he for ought but satisfaction of his cruel and bestial lusts.’

In the panelled courtroom cries of horror, cries of shock. A sob, ‘Alas, the poor, sweet child.’

His Lordship adjusted his wig and looked grave.

‘The wretch,’ said Princip, pointing an impassioned finger at Prisoner-at-the-Bar, ‘lured the young virgin into his iniquitous den under a shameful subterfuge, which was no other than to help her polish her already brightly shining verse. I submit for m’lud’s perusal and certain delight a not-untypical example of her exquisite poetry. M’lud will notice in particular the sentiment.’

His Lordship looked from the poem ‘Cousinhoodship IV’ to Prisoner-at-the-Bar. ‘Tsk-tsk.’

‘No sooner had she entered his rooms, this vestal of Apollo and the Muses, than he threw her upon his sybaritic couch and would have tried her
à l’outrance
.’

Cries of ‘No, no. Oh, the fiend!’

‘He would, I say, have tried her thus had I not rashly – and praised be rashness for it – burst in upon them. There is a divinity that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will.’