Kraven Images (22 page)

Startled by this frontal assault, Kraven fell back on the truth. At any rate, he told her his name and his academic affiliation. As for his interest in the sisters, he had met three beautiful young women without male escorts. It was pleasant to talk to them. Surely that wasn’t so odd? Certainly he meant none of them any harm. And look, it had paid off for him, hadn’t it? Weren’t he and Candy having a friendly chat right now?

‘Did you follow me to the Museum today?’

‘Certainly not!’ Since this
was
in fact the truth, his voice carried conviction.

‘You married, Marty?’

‘Nicholas, remember? No, of course not.’

‘Don’t be so shocked. I was just wondering why you didn’t give us your real name.’

Once again, Kraven was forced back on the truth. ‘I’ve got into a rather bad habit of lying in recent years. Usually for no good reason.’

‘I used to be like that,’ she said. ‘But then I grew up. Break the habit, Nicholas. Especially if we’re going to be friends.’

‘You’re on,’ he said. Ah, if only it were that simple.

They got up to leave.

‘I’ll walk you back to the Museum, if that’s okay,’ he said, ‘but I think I’ll put off my own visit for today.’

She took his arm. They walked in silence for a moment.

‘Are Dolly and Sugar serious about
Bardic Follies?
’ he said.

Candy grinned. ‘Oh, they’re serious all right. Once in a while Dolly gets a bug in her head. Nothing’ll come of it. She’s good at what she does. Really. She’s one of the best in
the
business. Sugar’s pretty good too, but somehow she’s never gotten top billing. Listen, I love them, they’re my big sisters, so don’t get me wrong. But legit? Not this time.’

‘That scene from
Hamlet
, though, you’ll admit it was extraordinary.’

‘Sure, I’ll admit
that
,’ she said, ‘but Dolly wants to open at the Old Vic, the Garrick at the very least.’ She squeezed his arm.

‘What about Bobby in all of this?’

Candy shrugged. ‘Who knows? Dolly can take care of herself when it comes to romance. Maybe she’s found herself an angel, maybe something more. She says he’s cute. She should know.’

They had arrived back at the Museum.

‘Good luck on Jane Austen,’ he said. ‘I enjoyed this afternoon.’

‘Me too. By the way, in answer to your first question, I’m
not
free this evening. But there
are
other evenings. Keep in touch.’

She stood on her toes and kissed him gently on the cheek. He waited and watched until the Museum swallowed her up.

* * *

Aunt Cicely’s particular friend was out when Kraven got back to Hendon to pick up his bags. He was at the lending library, in fact, where he did
so
like to pass an hour or two at least once a week. ‘Mr Fishbane is a devoted reader of the Russian classics,’ Aunt Cicely explained. ‘He’ll be back soon, but we have plenty of time before that for our little talk.’

They sat together in the front room, eating hot buttered scones and drinking tea.

‘You’ve changed, Nicholas.’

‘Not for the worse, I hope.’

‘I don’t feel I know you. It’s as if you weren’t
settled
in yourself, as if you were somehow uncomfortable in your own body. Adrift, somehow.’

‘Things change, people change. Time passes. You’ve changed too, you know.’

‘Mr Fishbane means well.’

‘I’m sure he does.’

‘You mustn’t think ill of him because he’s a bit…’

‘Coarse?’

‘Please don’t say that. He’s not had our advantages. But he’s got strong family feelings, perhaps because he’s all alone himself. He thought it wrong that we were so out of touch. He’s a
good
man.’

Kraven relented. ‘He must be, if he’s your special friend.’

She smiled. ‘But business first, Nicholas, dear. I want you to know the house in Hampstead is still yours, I never sold it. In fact, I’ve been letting it out on short leases – for the most part to American academics. There’s a Professor Luftmensch there right now. He holds a Chair somewhere in Inter-Personal Dynamics, whatever
that
is. But he’s moving out tomorrow. You’re free to do what you want with it once he’s gone. And then there’s
this
house, which will come to you eventually, together with whatever’s left over of Grandpa’s and mine. There, so much for business.’

‘Aunt Cicely –’

‘No,’ she interrupted him, ‘not another word.’ She paused. ‘I didn’t get on too well with your father, you know.’

‘I know. I always supposed it had something to do with my bastardy.’

‘You were
not
a bastard, Nicholas, not that it would make a ha’porth of difference if you were. Mummy and Daddy were married before you were born.’

‘A shotgun wedding, though.’

‘It almost broke Grandpa’s heart. The
shame
, the
disgrace
! It’s hard to believe nowadays the fuss that was made over
something
like that. But of course, Grandpa was frightfully moral. After all, he
was
a Victorian, the genuine article. He even named your mother after the old queen.

‘Your father was charming, though, I’ll say that; he had a way with him all right. Your mother adored him, absolutely adored him. But he was a dreadful womanizer. They
all
were,
all
the Kravens, even your Uncle Ferri, who was easily the most decent of the lot. Poor Victoria! She’d weep and weep at Felix’s infidelities, and he’d jolly her out of it in minutes.

‘But you know, Nicholas, I’ve lived long enough to envy my sister. I envy her the
completeness
of her love for your father. That was it, I think, although at the time I would have died rather than admit it: the sheer physicality of it. She
gloried
in it.

‘When your father died, she felt that her own life was over. In some ways it was. You probably don’t remember his funeral, you were just a boy at the time, poor little chap. Your mother went almost mad with grief. They wouldn’t let her anywhere near the coffin. Good thing too. Barbaric business. The rabbi was a figure out of some Polish horror story.

‘Well, now I’ve got Mr Fishbane and we rattle around in this house together and I
love
him. Oh, I know how he must look to the outside world, but
I
love him.’ She turned suddenly. ‘Oh Percy, you
did
give me a start!’

Fishbane stood at the door, a tam-o’-shanter on his head, a tartan scarf wrapped thrice around his neck, two books under his arm. ‘There you are,’ he said. ‘A scene of family tranquillity such as would warm the heart of Tolstoy himself. And in the front room, too. It’s my humble hope I’m not intruding.’

‘Not in the least,’ said Kraven affably. ‘We were waiting for you to complete the picture.’

Aunt Cicely reached across the tea table and squeezed his hand.

IT WAS TWO
in the Afternoon of the following day. Kraven sat glumly in the Gaiety Bar of the Hotel Russell. Before him on a little table stood a half-finished glass of light ale and on a paper plate a ham sandwich curling at the edges. The room’s purple-and-red decor was conducive to mordant thoughts. A man may rot even here, he reflected. A little while before, he had been to the British Library, not in pursuit of Candy alone, although he had certainly looked for her in the Reading Room, but because he had still to acquire his date-stamped book-request slips. There, sitting in a chair perhaps once occupied by Karl Marx, he had composed a poem inspired by Stella’s telegram, found waiting for him at the American Express Office in the Haymarket:

To Stella

On His Absence from Her

Since I accept (and must, perforce)

This simulacrum of divorce

And in my lonely cot must pine

The absence of that flesh divine,

Whose bounteous beauties would inspire

An Orpheus to restring his lyre,

What comforts now can cosset me,

Who’ve lost mine own Eurydice?

My mind’s the attic where I’ll trace

The outline of that lovely face

And paint the tint of blushing rose

Upon sweet tissue adipose.

There, with ever-mounting zest

I’ll show the curve of luscious breast,

Whereon, half-fainting, I shall stipple

My mistress’ boldly-thrusting nipple.

Then the brush will try each part

That erst my prick, with livelier art,

No heady pleasure ever missed,

By far the better pointillist.

No pagan in the days of yore

His idol ever might adore

As I this image in the mind,

This canvas whereupon I find

My Stella’s mere reflection

Can cause me an erection.

Alas! Fond Fancy’s but a cheat:

Food for thought is airy meat.

The artist of the mind grows thinner

For want of a substantial dinner.

Out, out upon it! Woe! Alack!

I want my fleshly Stella back!

He felt his eyes closing, his head sinking on to his chest, and jerked himself upright. This would never do. From behind the square enclosure to Kraven’s left the bartender polished a glass and shook his head in sympathy. Kraven plucked from his pocket Stella’s telegram and turned his back. He unfolded and reread it, although he already had its message by heart.

DARLING NICHOLAS. ARRIVING LONDON FRIDAY 1500 HOURS. STAYING ESU, CHARLES STREET. BAD NEWS
HERE
, APARTMENT TRASHED, TOTAL CHAOS. MISS YOU DREADFULLY. LOVE, STELLA.

How her arriving here might further complicate his life he could not say. He did not know if he had missed her too: nor did he know if he was glad she was coming. What had she meant by the trashing of her apartment? Had she been burglarized? Well, by tomorrow he would know. On the back of the telegram, and in his self-elected role of lover, he scribbled a tornada for this morning’s poem:

Venus heard me sigh this ditty,

Took on me immediate pity,

Promised a swift end to sorrow:

Stella flies to me tomorrow!

Kraven lifted his eyes from the telegram and looked across the room and into the dim alcove beyond. There, seated alone at at a little table identical to his own, was a rotund figure, a woman in a belted trenchcoat and slacks. She was peering beneath the flat of her raised palm, seemingly directly at him. It was disconcerting. The woman dropped her hand and let out a shriek.

‘Nobby!’

It was Diotima von Hoden, of course – here, as she had told him only last weekend she would be, for a spot of grinding at the British Library. Not a village, London was a hamlet.

‘Nobby!’

Kraven looked at his watch in the manner of a man shocked at learning the lateness of the hour. From the alcove came the sounds of a table overturning, glass shattering, and liquid sloshing.

‘Nobby!’

He dashed for the door, ran down the steps, and strode as
rapidly
and purposefully as his still crippled feet would permit across the street and towards the Square.

‘Nobby, wait! It is here Didi!’

He quickened his pace.

Behind him there was a wrenching squeal of brakes, an ugly thud, and then the melancholy demented wail of a stuck car horn. Kraven did not stop.

‘Nobby! Only wait, my sweet little sausage … stop … halt … attention!’

People were looking at Kraven now, heads were turning. Panic gripped him. Sweat trickled into his eyes. His heart pounded. Someone, a passer-by, made as if to stop him. He dodged and broke into a run. A dog barked. The car horn wailed.

‘Now then, now then, what’s all this, then?’

Kraven, his eyes stinging, had run head-on into a policeman, a giant, who held him firmly and inescapably by the upper arm. Luxuriant ginger moustaches descended from his nostrils but soon curved cheerfully upwards to adorn his pink cheeks.

‘There’s someone after you, m’lad.’

‘What?’ Kraven turned around in rich astonishment. But he was unable to break thereby the strong grip of the law. Perhaps fifty feet behind them was Diotima, bent almost double, holding on to a lamppost and taking deep, deep breaths. ‘Good lord, it’s Mother!’

‘Ah, it’s your mum, is it?’ The grip was minutely relaxed.

‘Yes.’

‘We’ll have to see about that then, then. You come along with me, sir.’

With ponderous and stately tread the policeman escorted Kraven back to where Diotima, now upright, stood wheezing at the lamppost.

‘What luck meeting up with you like this!’ said Kraven, frankly delighted. ‘We’ve the constable to thank, old girl.’
Kraven
turned gratefully to the man, peering at his collar insignia. ‘Thank you ever so much, PC 49!’

PC 49 released Kraven’s arm. He touched his helmet with his forefinger and quoted the Bard. ‘All’s well that ends well.’

‘Ta everso, peeler,’ wheezed Diotima, her idiom keyed to the locality.

‘Right, then. I’ll be getting along.’ The stuck car horn came within the purlieus of his attention. ‘Tsk-tsk.’ He moved off in sober pursuit of the sound.

‘You didn’t hear me calling? I cried out in full throat and yoo-hooed.’

‘No, I’m afraid not. Look, I’m in an awful rush.’

‘I’ve got the potion, Nobby. It’s here with me in London.’

‘Delighted to hear it. It’s been marvellous seeing you again, but I’ve an appointment with my publishers and I’m already late.’

Diotima had got her breath back. Her eyes narrowed in concentration. ‘But we must talk.’

‘But not now, Diotima. I really must be off.’

‘I stay at the Hotel Ispahan in Swiss Cottage, a hop, a leap and a chump from the station. But where do you stay?’

‘The Inn on the Park.’ Kraven spoke as one inspired. ‘Come to me there tonight, about half-past eight. We’ll have dinner in my suite, just the two of us. Champagne, music, and then…’

‘Oh yes! Tonight, my treasure! Oh yes, oh yes!’

He waggled an admonitory finger at her and winked. ‘Don’t forget the potion, Didi.’

‘Never doubt me, beloved.’ She caught his hand and kissed his knuckles roughly. ‘Tonight, Nobby Poore-Moody! Tonight, you beautiful little sausage you! Tonight!’