Kraven Images (17 page)

The Compleat Mourner, dragging a reluctant Aunt Cicely with him, took the opportunity to visit a number of familiar grave sites scattered about the cemetery. His was the smooth and cheerful manner of the professional cicerone, eager to point out to the traveller the local antiquities and curiosities.

Nicko accompanied Sybil back to her waiting taxi. She was quietly weeping. ‘I killed him,’ she said.

‘Whatever you’d like to keep for remembrance…’

‘He was all right until I told him about bloody vitamin A. I should turn myself in. O God, Marko darling! O Marko!’

Nicko helped her into her taxi. He stole another glance at her midriff. ‘I suppose he had already made his final arrangements. One forgets that he was about to leave anyway.’

‘Leave?’ She was looking
at
him now, not through him.

‘For America, his teaching post.’

Her large eyes, beautiful, brimmed with tears. ‘Oh please, Marko said nothing about America. Why would he go there?
He
’d have had to tell me, wouldn’t he? I’d have to get ready myself.’

‘Absolutely. Forgive me, I’m confused. Look, if something should come up…’ He felt in his jacket pocket. ‘Here’s my card. Get in touch with me, don’t hesitate.’

She did not respond. Her eyes had lost their focus. She held the card rigidly in her hand.

‘You know the address, driver? You’d better take her home.’

He never heard from Sybil again, of course.

It was while he was writing a letter to Professor Aristotle Papadakis, Chairman of the English Department, Mosholu College, explaining Marko’s inability to take up his new post in the autumn that Nicko conceived his brilliant idea, an idea at once breathtaking in its audacity and terrifying in its implications. It was a very simple idea. Why might he not go to America in Marko’s place? Who would know the difference? If this Papadakis was prepared to receive a Marcus Nicholas Kraven and a Nicholas Marcus Kraven presented himself, verifying diploma ‘onanistically in hand’, would he even question the inversion of names? Why should he?

But no, there must be a flaw in it somewhere. Nicko, of all people, would never get away with it. Bravura on a grand scale was hardly his forte. He resumed his writing.

But the brilliant idea refused to go away. It nudged and teased his concentration, drawing his mind away from the letter. The academic degree was much more certainly his than it had ever been Marko’s. How splendid if he were able to devote his life to literature, to scholarship, to the pursuit of Truth! How inexpressibly wonderful if he were to become a torchbearer in the dark night of ignorance and kindle the flame of learning in eager young minds!

America, to the west, offered unlimited hope, a
vita nuova
. The natural leaning of the Kravens tugged at him. But could
he
–
he
, law-abiding, diffident Nicholas – pull off so grand a deception, so terrifying a fraud? And would he dare? Absently, he plucked an imaginary pimple on his cheek. Only if he were to become Marko in fact, not merely in fancy, could he burst through the iron gates of his prison into the bright lights of freedom.

Kraven was on his way.

* * *

‘CHEER UP, GUY. She didn’t mean it. And if she did, well hey!’

‘What?’ Kraven looked up to find Dolly Divine at his elbow, smiling encouragingly, her drink in her hand.

‘It’s never as bad as it looks.’

‘To me it looks very good indeed,’ said Kraven gallantly. ‘You’re Dolly Divine, aren’t you?’

‘Yeah,’ she breathed. Her broad grin showed her delight in his recognition. ‘You a fan?’

‘I’m Martin Chuzzlewit,’ said Kraven. ‘I’m a freelance journalist.’

‘No kidding? D’you read what the
Wall Street Journal
said about my act? I was a smash hit at Spinoza’s. You ever do reviews, Marty?’

‘Books, sometimes. Look, may I buy you a drink?’

She swirled what remained of the drink in her glass. ‘In a bit, maybe. Let’s go sit over there by the window. I’m waiting for my sisters.’

Donovan, behind the bar, disapproving, took out his copy of
Midstream
and turned its pages.

Dolly Divine rolled on a calm full tide across the room towards a window seat. Kraven, his troubles forgotten, followed her admiringly. They sat at opposite sides of the table.

‘So what didja like best about my act, Marty?’

‘Ah, well…’

‘My “Stormy Weather” number, right? Yeah, that always brought the house down. I used to think it was the tassels. You remember the tassels, Marty? They loved “Stormy Weather” at Spinoza’s.’

Meanwhile, the door of Donovan’s had opened and closed. Dolly looked up and waved excitedly. Coming towards them were a brunette and a redhead. Kraven got to his feet.

‘So how did it go, Dolly?’ said the brunette anxiously.

Dolly gave a thumbs-up sign.

‘No kidding! You gonna tell us, for Chrisake?’ The brunette put her hand to her left breast, as if to slow her heartbeat.

‘Later. But don’t worry. You’re in like Flynn, too. Sit down, why doncha, the both of you. You too, Marty.’

They sat.

‘These’re my sisters,’ said Dolly. ‘Sugar Plum…’

‘Please t’meecha,’ said Sugar, pushing one shoulder forward and looking up at him beneath lowered lids. The tip of her tongue briefly caressed her upper lip. She was the brunette, her hair descending softly to her shoulders, a fringe covering her forehead. Like Dolly heavily but expertly made up, her face was rather thin, and she was perhaps slightly less well endowed than her sister. For all that, she was striking.

‘…and the baby, Candy Peaches.’

Candy, who, despite the hard, unfriendly surfaces of Donovan’s captain’s chair, was stretched out so that only her shoulders and coccyx touched it, said nothing. But she nodded to Kraven, grinning, and gave him an inexplicable, complicitous wink.

‘I’m Martin Chuzzlewit,’ said Kraven.

‘Marty’s a fan,’ explained Dolly. ‘Besides that, he writes a column. That right, Marty? He was just telling me how he was wowed by my “Stormy Weather” number. So I was thinking like maybe he’d like to write up about today. I
mean
, y’know, an in-depth interview? Lucky us meeting like this.’

‘May I buy you ladies a drink?’

Dolly downed what remained in her glass. ‘You bet.’

‘My pleasure,’ said Sugar Plum.

Candy winked once more.

‘Barkeep!’ called Kraven sternly and snapped his fingers.

Donovan looked up, sighed, put down
Midstream
and shuffled over. ‘Hi, Sugar Plum. Hi, Candy.’

‘Well, ladies,’ said Kraven expansively, ‘what will it be?’

‘Daiquiri, straight up,’ said Dolly.

‘Vodka gimlet,’ said Sugar Plum. ‘Heavy on the ice.’

‘Stinger,’ said Candy.

‘And I’ll have another scotch and water. Got all that?’

Donovan raised his eyes to the ceiling and shuffled back to the bar.

‘Your tastes in tipple are as different as your looks. Each of you is uniquely beautiful.’

‘Momma moved around a lot,’ said Sugar Plum.

‘And you’re all in show business?’

‘Dolly’s the real
artiste
,’ said Sugar sadly. ‘I’m the oldest – not that I’m
old
,’ she added hastily, ‘but, like, y’know, I was born
first
. Jeez, someone’s gotta be! – but anyways, I never made it into the big time, never got the breaks. And Candy here has barely started.’

‘That’s pretty good, Sugar,’ said Candy. ‘“
Barely
started” is good.’

Sugar Plum looked puzzled.

‘Never mind, honey,’ said Dolly, leaning forward to pat her older sister on the knee. ‘You’ll make it. You gotta believe, is all.’

The drinks arrived, presented by Donovan with an extravagant flourish to the sisters and with an irritable grunt to Kraven. They sipped, the sisters ruminating on the vagaries of show-business success.

‘Dolly ain’t just a stripper, Marty,’ said Sugar Plum. ‘Bobby – that’s our angel, Bobby – he says she’s dizzy-assed.’

‘An
Ecdysiast
, for Pete’s sake!’ Candy gave Sugar Plum a lovingly playful punch on the shoulder.

‘Who
is
Bobby?’

‘He’s a mult-eye millionaire,’ said Sugar Plum. ‘He’s gonna make Dolly an innernational celebrity.’

‘Okay, Sugar. That’s enough,’ said Dolly hastily. ‘Listen, Marty. I know you’ll understand. Things’re kinda in the balance right now. We’ve got this backer, see? This angel? But nothing’s finalized. He don’t want his name mentioned just yet. But since you’re a friend, I can tell you: things’re looking good.’

‘You’re putting on a show in Europe,’ said Kraven. ‘Sorry about that, but I heard you talking to Donovan.’

‘Exploring the possibilities, y’might say,’ said Dolly, playing it close to her bosom. ‘Checking out the options.
You
know: nothing definite. The sons-a-bitches get a whiff of the rolling green and the prices take off. You buy one little dress, it can cost anywheres up from seven hundred and fifty. And ostrich feathers? Forget it!’ The road to the big time was strewn with boulders. ‘You know what my costumes’re worth? Wanna take a guess? Twenty, maybe twenty-five gees!’

‘How did you meet Bobby?’

‘I was doing a private party up in Westchester, couple maybe three years ago, my “Scheherezade” number. Bobby liked my act. I don’t remember, did I do my “Scheherezade” at Spinoza’s? You remember, Marty? Anyways, Bobby and me got to talking, found we had a lot in common. You know how it is. He’s a sweet old guy.’

‘And you’re all going to Europe with him?’

‘Dolly is,’ said Sugar Plum. ‘We’re going along with Dolly.’

‘I think I detect a romantic entanglement.’

‘For the record,’ said Dolly with a mischievous grin, ‘you might say we’re just good friends.’

‘Another round, ladies?’ Kraven snapped his fingers at Donovan, pointed to the table, and made a circular motion with his finger.

‘I always wanted to go legit,’ said Dolly.

‘You could do it, too,’ said Sugar Plum.

Candy, grimacing, rolled her eyes ceilingwards.

Donovan placed the second round on the table and with a flourish removed the empty glasses.

‘It ain’t easy to change your image, break outta burlesque, open on Broadway maybe, Hollywood even.’ Dolly fell silent before the enchanting possibilities. The big break was happening to someone every day.

‘You could do it, Dolly,’ said Sugar Plum again. ‘She could too. Go on, tell him about the show.’

Dolly looked at Kraven dubiously.

‘He’s okay,’ said Sugar Plum. ‘You won’t spill any a this, will you, Marty?’

‘Mum’s the word.’

‘Well, I got this idea for a show, see, a show with class… You really innerested in this, Marty?’

‘Fascinated.’

‘I figure, y’know, to kinda ease into legit. I figure, I make my reputation over there, I can write my own ticket back here in the States. So I gotta get me a different kinda audience, not just a lot a guys who only wanna look at your whatsis. Oh sure, there’ll still be plenty of naked girls on stage, three maybe four strippers, a comedienne, a couple of gymnasts, an all-girl orchestra, and like that. See, what we’d do, we’d do these scenes from Shakespeare.’

‘What a terrific idea!’

‘Yeah,’ said Dolly modestly, ‘not too bad. I even got this title, Candy give it me, some kinda Follies. What was it, Can?’

‘
Bardic Follies
.’ Candy, shifting in her seat, sipping her drink, crossed one magnificent leg over the other.

‘That’s probably just the shot in the arm the legitimate theatre needs,’ said Kraven. ‘An all-female Shakespeare company.
Bardic Follies
. I like it.’

‘Candy’s been to college,’ said Sugar Plum proudly. ‘She’s a bachelor-girl.’

‘I even got this scene worked out,’ Dolly went on. ‘
Hamlet
. You know the play, Marty? Well, Candy was telling me about this book she read, and I saw the possibilities right away. It was by this shrink, a buddy of Frood.’ She snapped impatient fingers at Candy.

‘Jones,’ said Candy agreeably, ‘Ernest Jones, a limey disciple.’

‘This is the way I see it. The curtain goes up. The stage is dark, just one spot on Gertrude. That’s me, I’m a queen. I’m wearing just this black negligee, very tasteful, of course. I’m sitting on a throne, maybe fixing my hair. Then the music starts, Ravel’s
Bolero
, soft at first, sorta dreamy and sad. That’s Hamlet’s theme, see; he’s my son. Another spot picks him up. He comes in, dancing slow. He dances over to me, and then he sorta goes down on his knees and holds my hand, feverish, you can tell he’s upset, but kinda wistful.’

‘Act three, scene four,’ breathed Kraven.

‘Yeah, right. Anyways, that’s when Hamlet’s old man comes in, my first husband. A third spot picks him up. Oh, I didn’t tell you: he’s dead. What he is, he’s a ghost. So he’s got white paint on all over and he’s wearing this white robe. Now his theme begins, “The Anniversary Waltz”. See, what I’ve forgotten is today’s our anniversary. Slowly he takes off his robe; but he does it with dignity, being as he’s a king, and from the Other Side. Then his theme takes over, getting stronger all the time. He begins to sorta dance towards me, in time to the music. Like I said, he’s got this white stuff all over him, even on his you-know. You can tell he’s royal. He’s moving his hips, rubbing his hands up and down his thighs. “O. How we danced. On the night. We were wed.
Dee
-
dum
. Dee-dee-
dum
. Dee-dee-
dum
. Dee … dee …
dummm
.” You with me so far, Marty?’

‘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.