Michael Chabon - The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay

"No one is going to get bombed!" Joe said.

"You were right once, young man," Anapol said. "That may be all the being right you get."

Sammy folded his thick arms across his broad chest, elbows out. "And so what if we don't agree to the condition?"

"Then you don't get any five percent of Luna Moth. You don't get the raise. You don't get a piece of the radio money."

"But we could still keep on doing our stuff. Joe and I could keep fighting those Nazis."

"Certainly," said Anapol. "I'm sure Marty Goodman would be more than happy to hire you two to lob grenades at Hermann Goring. But you'd be finished here."

"Boss," said Sammy, "don't do this."

Anapol shrugged. "Not up to me. It's up to you. You have an hour," he said. "I want to get this all squared away before we meet with the radio people, which we are doing over lunch today."

"I don't need an hour," Joe said. "The answer is no. Forget it. You are cowards, and you are weak, and no."

"Joe?" Sammy said, calming himself now, trying to take everything in. "You're sure?"

Joe nodded.

"That's it, then," said Sammy. He put his hand on the small of Joe's back, and they started out of the office.

"Mr. Kavalier," George Deasey said now, pulling himself up out of his chair. "Mr. Clay. A word. Excuse us, gentlemen?"

"Please, George," Anapol said, handing the editor the painting of Luna Moth. "Talk some sense into them."

Sammy and Joe followed Deasey out of Anapol's office and into the workroom.

"Gentlemen," Deasey said. "I apologize for this, but I feel another little speech coming on."

"There's no point," Sammy said.

"This one is aimed more at Mr. R., here, I think."

Joe lit a cigarette, blew out a long stream of smoke, looked away. He didn't want to hear it. He knew that he was being unreasonable. But for a year now, unreason-the steadfast and all-consuming persecution of a ridiculous, make-believe war against enemies he could not defeat, by a means that could never succeed-had offered the only possible salvation of his sanity. Let people be reasonable whose families were not held prisoner.

"There is only one sure means in life," Deasey said, "of ensuring that you are not ground into paste by disappointment, futility, and disillusion. And that is always to ensure, to the utmost of your ability, that you are doing it solely for the money."

Joe didn't say anything. Sammy laughed nervously. He was prepared to back Joe up, of course, but he wanted to make sure, insofar as you could ever be sure, that it was really the right thing to do. He was hungry to follow Deasey's advice-to follow any fatherly guidance that came his way-but at the same time, he hated the thought of conceding so decisively to the man's cynical view of everything.

"Because, Mr. K., when I look at the way you have our various costumed friends punching the lights out of Herr Hitler and his associates month after month, tying their artillery into pretzels and so forth, I sometimes get the feeling, well, that you may have, let's say, other ambitions for your work here."

"Of course I do," said Joe. "You know that."

"It makes me very sorry to hear," Deasey said. "This kind of work is a graveyard of every kind of ambition, Kavalier. Take my word for it. Whatever you may hope to accomplish, whether from the standpoint of art or out of… other considerations, you will fail. I have very little faith in the power of art, but I remember the flavor of that faith, if you will, from when I was your age; the taste of it on the back of my tongue. Out of respect for you and the graceful idiot I once was, I concede the point. But this." He nodded toward the drawing of Luna Moth, then expanded the gesture with a weary spiral of his hand to take in the offices of Empire Comics. "Powerless," he said. "Useless."

"I… I do not believe that," Joe said, feeling himself weaken as his own worst fears were given voice.

"Joe," Sammy said. "Think of what you could do with all the money they're talking about. Think of how many kids you could afford to bring over here. That's something real, Joe. Not just a comic book war. Not just getting a fat lip from some kraut in the IRT."

And that was the problem, Joe thought. Giving in to Anapol and Ashkenazy would mean admitting that everything he had done until now had been, in Deasey's phrase, powerless and useless. A waste of precious time. He wondered if it could possibly be simple vanity that made him want to refuse the offer. Then the image of Rosa came into his mind, sitting on her disordered bed, head cocked to one side, eyes wide, listening and nodding as he told her about his work. No, he thought. Regardless of what Deasey says, I believe in the power of my imagination. I believe-somehow, when saying this to the image of Rosa, it did not sound trite or overblown-in the power of my art.

"Yes, god damn it, I want the money," Joe said. "But I can't stop fighting now."

"Okay," Sammy said. He sighed and looked around the workroom with a slump in his shoulders and a valedictory expression on his face.

It was the end of the dream that had flickered into life a year ago, in the darkness of his bedroom in Brooklyn, with the scraping of a match and the sharing of a hand-rolled cigarette. "That's what we'll tell them, then." He started to walk back into Anapol's office.

Deasey reached out and took hold of his shoulder. "Just a minute, Clay," he said.

Sammy turned back. He had never seen the editor look so uncertain before.

"Oh, Jesus," Deasey said. "What am I doing?"

"What are you doing?" said Joe.

The editor reached into the breast pocket of his tweed jacket and took out a folded sheet of paper. "This was in my in box this morning."

"What is it?" Sammy said. "Who's it from?"

"Just read it," Deasey said.

It was a photostatted copy of a letter from the firm of Phillips, Nizer, Benjamin & Krim.

Dear Messrs. Ashkenazy and Anapol:

This letter is being written to you on behalf of National Periodical Publications, Inc. ("National"). National is the exclusive owner of all copyright, trademark, and other intellectual property rights in and to the comic book magazines "Action Comics" and "Superman" and the character of "Superman" featured therein. National has recently learned of your magazine, "Radio Comics," featuring the fictional character "The Escapist." This character represents a blatant attempt to copy the protected work of our client, namely the various series that feature the adventures of the fictional character known as "Superman," which our client has been publishing since June of 1938. As such, your character constitutes a blatant infringement of our client's copyrights, trademarks, and common-law rights. We hereby demand that you immediately cease and desist from any further publication of your comic book magazine "Radio," and that all existing copies of these comic books be destroyed with a letter verifying destruction signed by an officer of your corporation.

If you fail to cease and desist from such publication, or fail to submit such a verification letter within five days of this letter, National Periodical Publications, Inc., shall forthwith pursue all of its legal and equitable remedies, including seeking to enjoin your further publication of "Radio Comics." This letter is written without waiver of any of our client's rights and remedies, at law and in equity, all of which are hereby expressly reserved.

"But he's nothing like Superman," Sammy said when he had finished. Deasey gave him a baleful look, and Sammy realized he was missing the point. He tried to work his way through to what the point might be. There was clearly something about this letter that Deasey felt would be helpful to them, though he was unwilling to go so far as to tell them what it was. "But that doesn't matter, does it?"