bluish rings; the curving fullness of the Kraven nose. No, not an appealing sight. Still – he straightened his back – better at his present worst than Poore-Moody at his best. All in all, a shower, shave and change of clothing would work wonders. Stella was no fool.
Kraven selected a tie that might suggest at once the sobriety of the established academic about to confer with president and dean and the gaiety of the young (well, not old) bachelor whose mistress has just confessed to adoring him. Either Stella loved him because, simply put, she loved him; or because, caught
in flagrante delicto
and making a virtue of necessity, she had convinced herself she did; or because the shocking events of the morning had eliminated for her the line between the fantasies of
grand amour
she must secretly always have harboured and, to speak plain, the grunting sweaty carnality of a Thursday-night lay. Why involve Menachem Widerschein and Early Byrd in what was patently a private matter? Because she needed the co-operation of an audience in investing airy nothing with a local habitation and a name. The thing existed – not merely because Stella said so but because independent witnesses could attest to it. Their acceptance of Stella’s truth would do more than corroborate Stella, it would also convince her.
Kraven remembered Marko’s advice to the young Nicko, years and years ago: ‘Lying’s easy. You’ve got to say the first thing that comes into your head. Right out, I mean. It’s no use stopping to think.’ The lie thus spoken soon convinced even the liar of its veritude. It transformed reality, imposing the order of necessity on to the chaos of circumstance. This lesson was a large part of his inheritance from Marko.
Kraven put on his jacket. The sounds of revelry penetrated his door, a shriek of laughter. The cognac was working its social magic. It was time for them all to go about the business of the day, Early to her household chores, Widerschein to complete his rounds, Stella to face her Robert. And Kraven? A decent luncheon downtown, a walk in the spring sunshine, and then a visit to the Museum of Modern Art, which today was offering a film documentary on the life and times of Sarah Bernhardt. This evening he might drop in on the Papadakises. Once a year at their ‘annual bash’, as they called it, the chairman of the English Department and his wife paid off their accumulated social obligations. To him the invitation had been a bit desultory – they owed him nothing, after all – but he had told Stella he was going to a party and, good as his word, to a party he would go. He checked himself in the mirror. Not too bad.
Before leaving the bedroom he took from a drawer the
Tickety-Boo
file, leafed through it, and looked for a limerick, composed some time ago, that, as he remembered it, was singularly suited to the present occasion. Yes, here it was.
Poore-Moody, a petit-point maven,
Whose forebears in fame are engraven,
Lost his wife to a chap
With cojones on tap,
And a name that is Nicholas Kraven.
Smiling, well pleased, he put it back in the file and returned the file to the drawer.
When he entered the living room Widerschein rose to greet him, a brimming glass of cognac in his hand. ‘
L’chayim!
’ he said, spilling a little cognac on the rug.
‘
Mazel tov!
’ said Early.
‘Darling!’ said Stella.
THREE
KRAVEN TURNED UP Sixth Avenue from Fifty-third Street and walked towards the Park. The documentary,
Quand Même!
, had left him in a nostalgic mood. Satisfactory so far as it went, it lacked something of the warmth of his own feelings about Sarah Bernhardt. It might, too, have benefited from access to the Kraven archives. Perhaps he should consider bringing them to the Museum’s attention.
Quand même!
Even so! – Sarah’s defiant motto, adopted by his grandfather, August Alexander, in humble imitation and fanatic adoration. How Opa had loved her! No, not love, love was not the word to
Kraven selected a tie that might suggest at once the sobriety of the established academic about to confer with president and dean and the gaiety of the young (well, not old) bachelor whose mistress has just confessed to adoring him. Either Stella loved him because, simply put, she loved him; or because, caught
in flagrante delicto
and making a virtue of necessity, she had convinced herself she did; or because the shocking events of the morning had eliminated for her the line between the fantasies of
grand amour
she must secretly always have harboured and, to speak plain, the grunting sweaty carnality of a Thursday-night lay. Why involve Menachem Widerschein and Early Byrd in what was patently a private matter? Because she needed the co-operation of an audience in investing airy nothing with a local habitation and a name. The thing existed – not merely because Stella said so but because independent witnesses could attest to it. Their acceptance of Stella’s truth would do more than corroborate Stella, it would also convince her.
Kraven remembered Marko’s advice to the young Nicko, years and years ago: ‘Lying’s easy. You’ve got to say the first thing that comes into your head. Right out, I mean. It’s no use stopping to think.’ The lie thus spoken soon convinced even the liar of its veritude. It transformed reality, imposing the order of necessity on to the chaos of circumstance. This lesson was a large part of his inheritance from Marko.
Kraven put on his jacket. The sounds of revelry penetrated his door, a shriek of laughter. The cognac was working its social magic. It was time for them all to go about the business of the day, Early to her household chores, Widerschein to complete his rounds, Stella to face her Robert. And Kraven? A decent luncheon downtown, a walk in the spring sunshine, and then a visit to the Museum of Modern Art, which today was offering a film documentary on the life and times of Sarah Bernhardt. This evening he might drop in on the Papadakises. Once a year at their ‘annual bash’, as they called it, the chairman of the English Department and his wife paid off their accumulated social obligations. To him the invitation had been a bit desultory – they owed him nothing, after all – but he had told Stella he was going to a party and, good as his word, to a party he would go. He checked himself in the mirror. Not too bad.
Before leaving the bedroom he took from a drawer the
Tickety-Boo
file, leafed through it, and looked for a limerick, composed some time ago, that, as he remembered it, was singularly suited to the present occasion. Yes, here it was.
Poore-Moody, a petit-point maven,
Whose forebears in fame are engraven,
Lost his wife to a chap
With cojones on tap,
And a name that is Nicholas Kraven.
Smiling, well pleased, he put it back in the file and returned the file to the drawer.
When he entered the living room Widerschein rose to greet him, a brimming glass of cognac in his hand. ‘
L’chayim!
’ he said, spilling a little cognac on the rug.
‘
Mazel tov!
’ said Early.
‘Darling!’ said Stella.
THREE
KRAVEN TURNED UP Sixth Avenue from Fifty-third Street and walked towards the Park. The documentary,
Quand Même!
, had left him in a nostalgic mood. Satisfactory so far as it went, it lacked something of the warmth of his own feelings about Sarah Bernhardt. It might, too, have benefited from access to the Kraven archives. Perhaps he should consider bringing them to the Museum’s attention.
Quand même!
Even so! – Sarah’s defiant motto, adopted by his grandfather, August Alexander, in humble imitation and fanatic adoration. How Opa had loved her! No, not love, love was not the word to
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