Free Kraven Images by Alan Isler

monograph…’ Kraven let his eyes grow wistful. ‘But no, too many irons in the fire, spreading myself too thin. It’s yours for what it’s worth.’ Here was true generosity of spirit; but here, too, was prudent foresight: Clerihew meant an almost certain encounter with Professor C.U.T. Quimby, an encounter he dared not chance. ‘Anyone who’d given half a thought to Merlin’s provenance might have stumbled on it. You yourself, after all.’
    ‘That’s very good of you, Kraven, very good. But the credit for the discovery’s yours, I’ll see to that. The hell with London, why wait that long? What about UCLA? I’m chairing the Arthurian section at the Institute of Med-Ren Studies, the seasonal chinwag. That’s sooner. You’re going, of course?’
    ‘Inadvertently I allowed my membership to lapse.’
    ‘The college will provide. I’ll speak to our masters, they owe me for tonight.’ He thumped Kraven heartily on the back. ‘Well, I’m off. There’s work to be done.’ He paused, frowning. ‘Damn Diotima! Look here, Kraven, you’ll take care of her for me, won’t you? Make my apologies, and so on? Remember, we’re off to Los Angeles. We’ll tell the world, my boy. My secretary’ll make all the arrangements, give you the precise dates and so forth; the Dean’ll speak to Papadakis. See you at JFK.’
    Kraven beamed, his heart fluttering cheerily. An unexpected semester break on the West Coast, all expenses paid, had much to recommend it. Besides, a word passed from Dillinger to Pioggi to Papadakis would nicely boost his credit in the department. Of course, it might perhaps not be entirely cricket, actually to go to LA. An image of wheezing, sweating Feibelman presented itself to his inner eye. The old man
had
nudged Kraven towards the discovery, after all. He should not be entirely forgotten. Surely it would be possible to make some generous and offhand reference to a student of his who had clumsily and all-unwittingly stumbled on the truth.
    Liz Papadakis bore down on him, cleaving through the press, drawing in her wake a rotund crone whose upper teeth preceded her as if gnawing out a passage. The crone wore an evening gown of moss green stained dark at the armpits, a gown like herself a relic of another era.
    ‘Professor Dillinger’s not leaving, I hope,’ said the crone.
    ‘You know, Diotima, don’t you, Nick?’ said Liz, ‘Diotima von Hoden?’
    ‘How d’you do,’ said Kraven.
    ‘You bet,’ said Diotima von Hoden. She closely resembled the late Eleanor Roosevelt.
    ‘Have you seen Ari?’ said Liz.
    ‘He’s probably with Zinka. She was looking for him too. Splendid party, Liz.’
    ‘Thanks.’ Her eyes misted rapidly. ‘Zinka, you said?’
    ‘Well, possibly.’
    ‘Look, if you see Ari, tell him from me to get his fat ass into the kitchen. We’ve got a fucking buffet to set up.’ And Liz, gamely swallowing, dashed off, blowzy, stringy hair falling in her plump face, one thumb attempting in vain to conceal a twisted brassiere strap beneath the shoulder of her tight dress.
    Kraven was thus left with Diotima, who had him wedged with his back to a corner. There was no way he might gracefully escape. This was the woman the slippery Dillinger had relinquished to his care.
    Diotima was eyeing him through narrowed lids, her head cocked to one side, as if she were guessing his weight. ‘We were not fully introduced, such charming American informality. But I am at a disadvantage, so unfair. Mrs Papadakis did not give me your final name.’
    ‘Poore-Moody,’ said Kraven, ‘Robert Poore-Moody. My friends call me Nobby.’ How easily – too easily! – the untruths nowadays slid off his tongue.
    ‘Ah, but why then did Mrs Papadakis say Nick?’
    ‘The Old Nick, an in-joke, too embarrassing to explain.’
    ‘I understand. We won’t talk of it.’
    It was Kraven’s turn again. Diotima was looking at him eagerly. ‘What is it you do, if I may ask, Fräulein von Hoden? What, as Ari