Michael Chabon - The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay

"I understand," Joe said. "If I may say, I-" Joe looked at Rosa again. She had, overnight, worked a thorough transformation on herself. Joe was amazed. It was as though she had set out to eradicate every trace of the moth girl. She had on a Black Watch kilt, dark hose, and a plain white blouse buttoned at the wrists and collar. Her lips were bare, and she had ironed her flyaway hair into two frizzy pleats parted down the middle. She had even put on a pair of glasses. Joe was taken aback by the change, but found the presence of the caterpillar girl reassuring. If he had walked into the outer office of the T.R.A. and found a wild-haired portraitist of vegetables, he might have been a little dubious about the agency's credentials. He was not sure which of the two poses, moth or caterpillar, was the less sincere, but either way, he was grateful to her now.

"Mr. Kavalier has money, Mr. Hoffman," Rosa said. "He can afford to underwrite his brother's passage himself?'

"I'm happy for you, Mr. Kavalier, but tell me. We have space on Miriam for three hundred and twenty-four. Our agents in Europe have already arranged for the transit of three hundred and twenty-four German, French, Czech, and Austrian children, with a waiting list that is considerably longer than that. Should one of them be left behind to make room for your brother?"

"No, sir."

"Is that what you propose we do?"

"No, sir." Joe shifted in his chair miserably. Couldn't he think of anything better to say to this man than No, sir, over and over again like a child being shown the error of his ways? His brother's fate might well be settled in this room. And it all depended on him. If he was, to Hoffman, in any way insufficiently… something, the Ark of Miriam would sail from Portsmouth without Thomas Kavalier. He stole another look at Rosa. It's all right, her face told him. Just tell him. Talk to him.

"I understand there may be room in the sick bay," Joe said.

Now Hoffman shot a look at Rosa. "Well, ye-es. In the best of circumstances, perhaps. But suppose there is an outbreak of measles, or some kind of accident?"

"He is a very small boy," Joe said. "For his age. He would not occupy very much space."

"They are all small, Mr. Kavalier," Hoffman said. "If I could safely pack in three hundred more of them, I would."

"Yes, but who would pay forthem?" Rosa burst out. She was getting impatient. She pointed her finger at Hoffman. Joe noticed a streak of aubergine paint on the palm of her hand. "You say that three hundred and twenty-four have been cleared for passage, but you know that right now we can't pay for more than two hundred and fifty."

Hoffman sat back in his chair and stared at her in what Joe hoped was only mock horror.

Rosa covered her mouth. "Sorry," she said. "I'll be quiet."

Hoffman turned to Joe. "Watch out when she points that finger at you, Mr. Kavalier."

"Yes, sir."

"She's right. We are short of funds around here. The right adverb, I believe, is 'chronically.'"

"This is what I was thinking," Joe said. "What if I paid for another child beside to my brother?"

Hoffman sat forward, chin in palm. "I'm listening," he said.

"It's possible that I most likely can arrange to pay the fare for two or perhaps three others."

"Indeed?" Hoffman said. "And just what is it you do, Mr. Kavalier? Some kind of artist, is that it?"

"Yes, sir," Joe said. "I work in comic books."

"He's very talented," Rosa said, though last night she had admitted to Joe that she had never looked between the covers of a comic book in her life. "And very well paid."

Hoffman smiled. He had been concerned for some time at the apparent lack in his young secretary's life of a suitable male companion.

"Comic books," he said. "That's all I hear about, Superman, Batman. My son, Maurice, is a regular reader." Hoffman reached for a picture frame on his desk and turned it around, revealing the face of a smaller version of himself, bags under the eyes and all. "He's having his bar mitzvah in a month."

"Congratulations," Joe said.

"Which comic book do you draw? Do you draw Superman?"

"No, but I know a guy, a young man, who does. I work at Empire Comics, sir. We do the Escapist. Also, maybe your son knows them, the Monitor, Mr. Machine Gun. I draw a lot of it. I make about two hundred dollars a week." He wondered if he ought to have brought along his pay stubs or some other kind of financial documentation. "I usually manage to save all of this but perhaps twenty-five."

"My goodness," Hoffman said. He looked over at Rosa, whose face also betrayed a fair amount of surprise. "We're in the wrong line of work, dear."

"It seems that way, boss," she said.

"The Escapist," Hoffman continued. "I think maybe I've seen that, but I'm not sure-"

"He is an escape artist. A performing magician."

"A performing magician?"

"That's correct."

"Do you know anything about magic?"

There was a whetted edge to the question. It was more than a friendly inquiry, though Joe could not imagine why.

"I have studied it," Joe said. "In Prague. I studied with Bernard Kornblum."

"Bernard Kornblum!" Hoffman said. "Kornblum!" His expression softened. "I saw him once."

"You saw Kornblum?" Joe turned to Rosa. "That's astonishing."

"I'm completely astonished," Rosa said. "Was it in Konigsberg, sir?"

"It was in Konigsberg."

"When you were a boy."

He nodded. "When I was a boy. I was quite an amateur magician myself at one time. Still dabble from time to time. Now let me see." He waggled his fingers, then wiped his hands on an invisible napkin. His cigarette was gone. "Voila." He rolled his heavy-lidded eyes to the ceiling and plucked the cigarette from thin air. "Et voila." The cigarette slipped from his fingers and fell onto his jacket, left a streak of ash on his lapel, then dropped to the floor. Hoffman cursed. He pushed his chair back, clapped a hand onto his head, and, with a grunt, bent over to pick up the cigarette. When he sat up again, the warp of his wig seemed to have come free of the weft. Coarse black hairs stood up all over his head, wavering like a pile of iron filings drawn toward a distant but powerful magnet. "I'm terribly out of practice, I'm afraid." He patted down his hairpiece. "Are you any good?"

Kornblum had disdained patter as unworthy of the true master, and now Joe rose, wordlessly, and took off his jacket. He shot his cuffs and casually presented his empty hands for Hermann Hoffman's inspection. He was aware that he was taking a certain risk. Close work had never been his forte. He hoped that his index finger was all right.

"How is your finger?" Rosa whispered.

"Fine," said Joe. "May I trouble you for your cigarette lighter?" he asked Hoffman. "I'll only need it for a moment."

"But of course," said Hoffman. He handed his gold lighter to Joe.

"And another cigarette, I'm afraid."

Hoffman complied, watching Joe carefully. Joe stepped back from the desk, fit the cigarette to his lips, lit it, and inhaled deeply. Then he held up the lighter between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand and blew out a long blue jet of smoke. The lighter vanished. Joe took another deep drag and held it, and pinched his nose, and comically bugged out his eyes. The brown Thoth-Amon vanished. He opened his mouth and breathed out slowly. The smoke had vanished, too.

"Sorry," said Joe. "Clumsy of me."

"Very nice. Where is the lighter?"

"Here is the smoke."

Joe raised his left hand in a fist, drew it across his face, and then opened his hand like a flower. A teased knot of smoke floated out. Joe smiled. Then he picked up his jacket, hanging from the back of his chair, and took out his own cigarette case. He opened the case and revealed the Egyptian cigarette snug inside it, like a brown egg in a carton full of whites. It was still burning. He leaned forward and rolled the burning end in the ashtray on Hoffman's desk until it went out. As he straightened, he put the cigarette back into his mouth and snapped his fingers in front of the extinguished coal. The lighter reappeared. He scratched up a new flame and relit the cigarette. "Ah," he said, as if settling into a warm bath, exhaling.