Michael Chabon - The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay

Then Joe said, half to himself, "Yes, I would like to see again that Rosa Saks."

Sammy laughed. Joe looked at him, too tired to inquire, and Sammy was too tired to explain. Another few minutes passed in silence. Sammy's chin dropped down onto his chest. After bobbing there for a moment, his head bounced up again and he snapped open his eyes.

"Was that the first woman you ever saw naked?"

"No," said Joe. "I drew models at the art school."

"Right."

"Have you seen?"

There was more implicit in this question, naturally, than the mere observation of a woman without her clothes. Sammy had long ago prepared a detailed account of the loss of his virginity, the moving tale of an encounter under the boardwalk with Roberta Blum on her last night in New York City, the eve of her departure for college, but he found he lacked the energy to recount it. So he just said, "No."

When Marty Gold wandered upstairs an hour later, in search of a desperate glass of milk to counteract the effects of the coffee he had drunk, he found the cousins asleep on the floor of the kitchenette, half in and half out of each other's arms. Sleepless, ulcerated, Marty was in a very ill mood, and it is to his lasting credit that, instead of throwing a fit at their having violated his prohibition on sleeping in the apartment, he threw an army blanket over Joe and Sammy, one that had returned with the Waczukowski son from Ypres, and warmed the five toes of Al Capp. Then he brought in the bottle of milk from the windowsill and carried it with him back to bed.

Monday dawned as the most beautiful morning in the history of New York City. The sky was as blue as the ribbon on a prize-winning lamb. Atop the Chrysler Building, the streamlined gargoyles gleamed like a horn section. Many of the island's 6,011 apple trees were heavy with fruit. There was an agrarian tinge of apples and horse dung in the air. Sammy whistled "Frenesi" all the way across town and into the lobby of the Kramler Building. As he whistled, he entertained a fantasy in which he featured, some scant years hence, as the owner of Clay Publications, Inc., putting out fifty titles a month, pulp to highbrow, with a staff of two hundred and three floors in Rockefeller Center. He bought Ethel and Bubbie a house out on Long Island, way out in the sticks, with a vegetable garden. He hired a nurse for Bubbie, someone to bathe her and sit with her and mash her pills up in a banana. Someone to give his mother a break. The nurse was a stocky, clean-cut fellow named Steve. He played football on Saturdays with his brothers and their friends. He wore a leather helmet and a sweatshirt that said army. On Saturdays, Sammy left his polished granite and chromium office and took the train out to visit them, feasting in his private dining car on turtle meat, the most abominated and unclean of all, which the Mighty Molecule had once sampled in Richmond and never to his dying day forgotten. Sammy hung his hat on the wall of the charming, sunny Long Island cottage, kissed his mother and grandmother, and invited Steve to play hearts and have a cigar. Yes, on this last beautiful morning of his life as Sammy Klayman, he was feeling dangerously optimistic.

"Did you bring me a Superman?" Anapol said without preamble when Sammy and Joe walked into his office.

"Wait till you see," said Sammy.

Anapol made room on his desk. They opened the portfolios one after another, and piled on the pages.

"How much did you do?" Anapol said, lifting an eyebrow.

"We did a whole book," said Sammy. "Boss, allow me to present to you"-he deepened his voice and flourished his hands in the direction of the pile-"the debut issue of Empire Comics' premier title, Masked-"

"Empire Comics."

"Yeah, I was thinking."

"Not Racy."

"Maybe it's better."

Anapol fingered his Gibraltar chin. "Empire Comics."

"And their premier title…" Sammy lifted the sheet of tracing paper on Joe's painting. "Masked Man Comics."

"I thought it was going to be called Joy Buzzer or Whoopee Cushion."

"Is that what you want to call it?"

"I want to sell novelties," said Anapol. "I want to move radios."

"Radio Comics, then."

"Amazing Midget Radio Comics" Joe said, clearly under the impression that it sounded very fine.

"I like it," Anapol said. He put on his glasses and leaned down to examine the cover. "He's a blond. All right. He's hitting someone. That's good. What's his name?"

"His name's the Escapist."

"The Escapist." He frowned. "He's hitting Hitler."

"How about that."

Anapol grunted. He picked up the first page, read the first two panels of the story, then scanned the rest. Quickly, he scanned the next two pages. Then he gave up.

"You know I have no patience with nonsense," said the Northeast's leading wholesaler of chattering windup mandibles. He put the pages aside. "I don't like it. I don't get it."

"What do you mean? How can you not get it? He's a superhuman escape artist. No cuffs can hold him. No lock is secure. Coming to the rescue of those who toil in the chains of tyranny and injustice. Houdini, but mixed with Robin Hood and a little bit of Albert Schweitzer."

"I can see you have a knack for this," said Anapol, "by the way. I'm not saying that's a good thing." His large, woebegone features drew tight, and he looked as if his breakfast were repeating on him. He smells money, thought Sammy. "On Friday, Jack talked to his distributor, Seaboard News. Turns out Seaboard's looking for a Superman, too. And we're not the first ones they've heard from." He hit the switch that buzzed his secretary. "I want Jack." He picked up the phone. "Everybody's trying to get in on this costumed-character thing. We've got to jump on it before the bubble goes pop."

"I already have seven guys lined up, boss," said Sammy. "Including Frank Pantaleone, who just sold a strip to Ring Features." This was nearly true. "And Joe here. You see what kind of work he can do. How about that cover?"

"Punching Adolf Hitler," Anapol said, inclining his head doubtfully. "I just don't know about that. Hello, Jack? Yeah. That's right. Okay." He hung up. "I don't see Superman getting mixed up in politics. Not that I personally would mind seeing somebody clean Hitler's clock."

"That's the point, boss," said Sammy. "Lots of people wouldn't mind. When they see this-"

Anapol waved the controversy away. "I don't know, I don't know. Sit down. Stop talking. Why can't you be a nice, quiet kid like your cousin here?"

"You asked me…"

"And now I'm asking you to stop. That's why a radio has a switch. Here." He pulled open a drawer in his desk and took out his humidor. "You did good. Have a cigar." Sammy and Joe each took one, and Anapol set fire to the twenty-cent lonsdales with the silver Zippo that had been presented to him as a token of gratitude by general subscription of the International Szymanowski Society. "Sit down." They sat down. "We'll see what George thinks."

Sammy leaned back, letting out one vainglorious swallowtail cloud of blue smoke. Then he sat forward. "George? George who? Not George Deasey?"

"No, George Jessel. What do you think, of course George Deasey. He's the editor, isn't he?"

"But I thought… you said-" Sammy's protest was interrupted by a fit of severe coughing. He stood up, leaned on Anapol's desk, and tried to fight down the spasm of his lungs. Joe patted him on the back. "Mr. Anapol-I thought I was going to be the editor."

"I never said that." Anapol sat down, the springs of his chair creaking like the hull of an imperiled ship. His sitting down was a bad sign; Anapol did business only on his feet. "I'm not going to do that. Jack's not going to do that. George Deasey has been in the business for thirty years. He's smart. Unlike you or I, he went to college. To Columbia College, Sammy. He knows writers, he knows artists, he meets deadlines, and he doesn't waste money. Jack trusts him."