Part 29 (1/2)

”I heard from their lawyer last night. Production is to commence by the end of this year, if not sooner. The money is certainly not enormous-we're not talking M-G-M here-but it isn't bad. Not bad at all.”

”Naturally we are obliged to ask you to give us half of it,” Joe said.

”Naturally,” Anapol agreed. He smiled. ”Now tell me what it is. that you two have worked out.”

”Well, basically it's a whole new approach to this game. We saw-”

”What do we need with a whole new approach? The old approach has been working great.”

”This is better.”

”Better in this context can mean only one thing,” Anapol said. ”And that is more money. Is this new approach of yours going to make more money for me and my partner?”

Sammy looked at Joe. He was, in fact, still not entirely persuaded of this. But he was still feeling the sting of Bacon's accusation the night before. And what was more, he knew Sh.e.l.ly Anapol. Money was not-not always-the most important thing in the world to him. Once, years before, Anapol had cherished hopes of playing the violin in the New York Philharmonic, and there was a part of him, albeit deeply buried, that had never completely resigned itself to the life of a dealer in whoopee cus.h.i.+ons. As Empire Comics' sales figures had climbed, and the towering black cyclones of money came blowing in out of the heartland, Anapol, out of this residual ambition and a perverted sense of guilt over the brainless ease with which colossal success had been achieved, had grown extremely touchy about the poor reputation of comic books among the Phi Beta Kappas and literary pooh-bahs whose opinions meant so much to him. He had even imposed upon Deasey to write letters to The New York Times The New York Times and and The American Scholar, The American Scholar, to which he then signed his own name, protesting the unfair treatment he considered those publications had given his humble product in their pages. to which he then signed his own name, protesting the unfair treatment he considered those publications had given his humble product in their pages.

”Lots,” Sammy said. ”Piles, boss.”

”Show me.”

They fetched the portfolio and tried to explain what it was they intended to do.

”Adults,” Anapol said after a few minutes of listening. ”You're talking about getting adults to read comic books.”

The cousins looked at each other. They had not quite expressed or understood it that way before.

”I guess so,” Sammy said.

”Yes,” said Joe. ”Adults with adult money.”

Anapol nodded, stroking his chin. Sammy could see a relief flowing into his shoulders and the hinges of his jaw, unknotting them, sending Anapol tilting back in his big leather swivel chair with a grandeur and an ease not entirely free of the threat of metal fatigue and failing springs. Whether it was relief at having at last found a worthy basis for his commerce, or merely that he was comforted by the rea.s.suring proximity of certain failure, Sammy could not be sure.

”Okay,” Anapol said, reaching for his unfinished letter. ”We'll give it a try. Get to work.”

Joe started to walk away, but Sammy took hold of his arm and pulled him back. They stood. Anapol added another sentence to his letter, considered it, then looked up.

”Yes?”

”What about this not-enormous money from Parna.s.sus?” Sammy said. ”We got a piece of the radio show. You gave us a piece of the newspaper strip. I don't see why we-”

”Oh, for G.o.d's sake,” Anapol said. ”Don't even bother to finish, Mr. Clay, I've heard it all before.”

Sammy grinned. ”And?”

Anapol's smile grew cagey and very, very small. ”I'm not averse. I can't speak for Jack, but I'll take it up with him and see if we can't work something out.”

”A-all right,” Sammy said, surprised and a little suspicious, sensing an imminent condition.

”Now,” Anapol said, ”see if you can guess what I'm about to say to you.”

”They're putting Szymanowski on a bubblegum card?”

”Maybe you aren't aware of this,” Anapol said, ”but Parna.s.sus Pictures does a very healthy business in Europe.”

”I didn't know that.”

”Yes. As a matter of fact, their second-biggest market after the domestic is, of all places-”

”Germany,” said Joe.

”Naturally, they're a little concerned about the reputation you two have earned for this company, in your many imaginative ways, as antagonistic to the citizens and government of that nation of fanatical moviegoers. I had a long talk with Mr. Frank Singe, the studio head. He made it very clear-”

”Don't even bother to finish,” Sammy said. He was disgusted. ” 'We've heard it all before.' ” He looked appealingly at Joe, willing him to speak up, to tell Anapol about his family and the indignities to which they were being exposed, the one hundred cruelties, gross and tiny, to which, with an almost medical regimentation, they were being subjected by the Reichsprotektorat. He was sure that Anapol would give in once again.

”All right,” Joe said softly. ”I will stop the fighting.”

Anapol's eyebrows shot up in surprise.

”Joe?” Sammy said. He was shocked. ”Joe, come on. What are you talking about. You can't give up! This-this is censors.h.i.+p. censors.h.i.+p. We're being censored! This is the very thing we're supposed to be standing up to. The Escapist would stand up to something like this.” We're being censored! This is the very thing we're supposed to be standing up to. The Escapist would stand up to something like this.”

”The Escapist is not a real person.”

”Yeah, I know know that. Christ.” that. Christ.”

”Sam,” said Joe, his cheeks reddening. He put a hand on Sammy's arm. ”I appreciate what you think you are doing. But I want to do this this now.” He tapped the portfolio. ”I'm tired of fighting, maybe, for a little while. I fight, and I am fighting some more, and it just makes me have now.” He tapped the portfolio. ”I'm tired of fighting, maybe, for a little while. I fight, and I am fighting some more, and it just makes me have less less hope, not more. I need to do something ... something that will be hope, not more. I need to do something ... something that will be great, great, you know, instead of trying always to be Good.” you know, instead of trying always to be Good.”

”Joe, I-” Sammy started to argue, but just as quickly gave up. ”Fine,” he said. ”We'll lay off the n.a.z.is. It won't be long anyway till we're in this war.”

”And then I promise to give you the satisfaction of reminding me of my ign.o.ble behavior here this morning,” said Anapol. ”As well as a share-something very modest, I a.s.sure you-in the small bounty that Hollywood is going to provide us with.”

The cousins started away. Sammy looked back.

”What about the j.a.ps?” he said.

10

THE SUDDEN SMALL EFFLORESCENCE of art, minor but genuine, in the tawdry product line of what was then the fifth- or sixth-largest comic book company in America has usually been attributed to the potent spell of Citizen Kane Citizen Kane acting on the renascent aspirations of Joe Kavalier. But without the thematic ban imposed by Sheldon Anapol at the behest of Parna.s.sus Pictures-the censors.h.i.+p of all story lines having to do with n.a.z.is (j.a.ps, too), warfare, saboteurs, fifth columnists, and so on-which forced Sammy and Joe to a drastic reconsideration of the raw materials of their stories, the magical run of issues that commenced with acting on the renascent aspirations of Joe Kavalier. But without the thematic ban imposed by Sheldon Anapol at the behest of Parna.s.sus Pictures-the censors.h.i.+p of all story lines having to do with n.a.z.is (j.a.ps, too), warfare, saboteurs, fifth columnists, and so on-which forced Sammy and Joe to a drastic reconsideration of the raw materials of their stories, the magical run of issues that commenced with Radio Comics Radio Comics #19 and finished when Pearl Harbor caught up to the two-month Empire lead time in the twenty-first issue of #19 and finished when Pearl Harbor caught up to the two-month Empire lead time in the twenty-first issue of Triumph Comics Triumph Comics (February 1942) looks pretty unlikely. In eight issues apiece of (February 1942) looks pretty unlikely. In eight issues apiece of Radio, Triumph, All Doll, Radio, Triumph, All Doll, and the now-monthly and the now-monthly Escapist Adventures, Escapist Adventures, the emphasis is laid, for the first time, not only on the superpowered characters - normally so enveloped in their inevitable shrouds of bullets, torpedoes, poison gases, hurricane winds, evil spells, and so forth, that the lineaments of their personalities, if not of their deltoids and quadriceps, could hardly be discerned-but also, almost radically for the comic book of the time, on the ordinary people around them, whose own exploits, by the time hostilities with Germany were formally engaged in the early months of 1942, had advanced so far into the foreground of each story that such emphasis itself, on the everyday heroics of the ”powerless,” may be seen to const.i.tute, at least in hindsight, a kind of secret, and hence probably ineffectual, propaganda. There were stories that dealt with the minutiae of what Mr. Machine Gun, at home in the pages of the emphasis is laid, for the first time, not only on the superpowered characters - normally so enveloped in their inevitable shrouds of bullets, torpedoes, poison gases, hurricane winds, evil spells, and so forth, that the lineaments of their personalities, if not of their deltoids and quadriceps, could hardly be discerned-but also, almost radically for the comic book of the time, on the ordinary people around them, whose own exploits, by the time hostilities with Germany were formally engaged in the early months of 1942, had advanced so far into the foreground of each story that such emphasis itself, on the everyday heroics of the ”powerless,” may be seen to const.i.tute, at least in hindsight, a kind of secret, and hence probably ineffectual, propaganda. There were stories that dealt with the minutiae of what Mr. Machine Gun, at home in the pages of Triumph, Triumph, liked to call ”the hero biz,” told not only from the point of view of the heroes but from those of various butlers, girlfriends, a.s.sistants, shoe-s.h.i.+ne boys, doctors, and even the criminals. There was a story that followed the course of a handgun though the mean streets of Empire City, in which the Escapist appeared on only liked to call ”the hero biz,” told not only from the point of view of the heroes but from those of various butlers, girlfriends, a.s.sistants, shoe-s.h.i.+ne boys, doctors, and even the criminals. There was a story that followed the course of a handgun though the mean streets of Empire City, in which the Escapist appeared on only two pages. two pages. Another celebrated story told the tale of Luna Moth's girlhood, and filled in gaps in her biography, through a complicated series of flashbacks narrated by a group of unemployed witches' familiars, talking rats and cats and reptilian whatsits, in a ”dark little hangout outside of Phantomville.” And there was ”Kane Street,” focusing for sixty-four pages on one little street in Empire City as its denizens, hearing the terrible news that the Escapist lies near death in the hospital, recall in turn the way he has touched their lives and the lives of everyone in town (only to have it all turn out, in the end, as a cruel hoax perpetrated by the evil Crooked Man). Another celebrated story told the tale of Luna Moth's girlhood, and filled in gaps in her biography, through a complicated series of flashbacks narrated by a group of unemployed witches' familiars, talking rats and cats and reptilian whatsits, in a ”dark little hangout outside of Phantomville.” And there was ”Kane Street,” focusing for sixty-four pages on one little street in Empire City as its denizens, hearing the terrible news that the Escapist lies near death in the hospital, recall in turn the way he has touched their lives and the lives of everyone in town (only to have it all turn out, in the end, as a cruel hoax perpetrated by the evil Crooked Man).

All of these forays into chopping up the elements of narrative, in mixing and isolating odd points of view, in stretching, as far as was possible in those days, under the constraints of a jaded editor and of publishers who cared chiefly for safe profit, the limits of comic book storytelling, all these exercises were, without question, raised far beyond the level of mere exercise by the unleashed inventiveness of Joe Kavalier's pencil. Joe, too, made a survey of the tools at hand, and found them more useful and interesting than he ever had before. But the daring use of perspective and shading, the radical placement of word balloons and captions and, above all, the integration of narrative and picture by means of artfully disarranged, dislocated panels that stretched, shrank, opened into circles, spread across two full pages, marched diagonally toward one corner of a page, unreeled themselves like the frames of a film-all these were made possible only by the full collaboration of writer and artist together.

Whether the delightful fruit of this collaboration came at a price; whether the thirty-two extra issues, the two thousand extra pages of n.a.z.i-smas.h.i.+ng obviated by Anapol's ban, might somehow, incrementally, have slid America into the war sooner; whether the advantage gained in time would have precipitated an earlier victory; whether that victory coming a day or a week or a month earlier would have sufficed to preserve a dozen or a hundred or a thousand more lives; such questions now can have only an academic poignancy, as both the ghosts and those haunted by them are dead.

At any rate, the circulation figures for the Kavalier Clay t.i.tles increased steadily until, by the abrupt termination of the partners.h.i.+p, they had nearly doubled, though whether this amazing growth was due to the books' marked advance in sophistication and quality, or was simply a product of the general explosion in comic book sales that occurred in the months leading up to the entry of America into the war, is difficult to a.s.sess. Great ringing blizzards-blowing in from Hollywood, from radio, from Milton Bradley and Marx Toys, Hostess Cakes and (inevitably) the Yale Lock Company, but most of all from the change purses, dungaree pockets, and Genuine Latex Rubber Escapist Coin Banks of the nation-blanketed the offices on the twenty-fifth floor of the Empire State Building. It required shovels and snowplows and crews of men working around the clock to keep ahead of the staggering avalanche of money. Some of this snowfall ended up, in due course, in the bank account of Josef Kavalier, where it towered in fantastic drills and was left that way, aloof and glinting, to cool the fever of exile from the day his family should arrive.

11