The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay by Michael Chabon Page A
Authors: Michael Chabon
Tags: Unknown, Fiction, Suspense, Humorous, Historical, Coming of Age, Action & Adventure, Authorship, Heroes in Mass Media, Comic Books; Strips; Etc., Czech Americans
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We have to say something like 'The Whoopee Hat Liner emits a sound more easily imagined than described.' So you really have to get it across in the drawing."
"I see," said Josef. He seemed to take up the challenge. "I would draw a breathing of wind." He scratched five quick horizontal lines on a scrap of paper. "Then I would put such small things, so." He sprinkled his staff with stars and curlicues and broken musical notation.
"Nice," said Sammy. "Josef, I tell you what. I'm going to try to do better than just get you a job drawing the Gravmonica Friction-Powered Mouth Organ, all right? I'm going to get us into the big money."
"The big money," Josef said, looking suddenly hungry and gaunt. "That would be good of you, Sammy. I need some of the very big money. Yes, all right."
Sammy was startled by the avidity in his cousin's face. Then he realized what the money was wanted for, which made him feel a little afraid. It was hard enough being a disappointment to himself and Ethel without having to worry about four starving Jews in Czechoslovakia. But he managed to discount the tremor of doubt and reached out his hand. "All right," he said. "Shake, Josef."
Josef put forth his hand, then pulled back. He put on what he must have thought was an American accent, a weird kind of British cowboy twang, and screwed his features into a would-be James Cagney wise-guy squint. "Call me Joe," he said.
"Joe Kavalier."
"Sam Klayman."
They started to shake again, then Sammy withdrew his own hand.
"Actually," he said, feeling himself blush, "my professional name is Clay."
"Clay?"
"Yeah. I, uh, I just think it sounds more professional."
Joe nodded. "Sam Clay," he said.
"Joe Kavalier."
They shook hands.
"Boys!" called Mrs. Klayman from the kitchen. "Breakfast."
"Just don't say anything about any of this to my mother," Sammy said. "And don't tell her I'm changing my name."
They went out to the laminate table in the kitchen and sat down in two of the padded chrome chairs. Bubbie, who had never met any of her Czech progeny, was sitting beside Joe, ignoring him completely. She had encountered, for better or worse, so many human beings since 1846 that she seemed to have lost the inclination, perhaps even the ability, to acknowledge faces or events that dated from any time after the Great War, when she had performed the incomparable feat of leaving Lemberg, the city of her birth, at the age of seventy, to come to America with the youngest of her eleven children. Sammy had never felt himself to be anything more, in Bubble's eyes, than a kind of vaguely beloved shadow from which the familiar features of dozens of earlier children and grandchildren, some of them dead sixty years, peered out. She was a large, boneless woman who draped herself like an old blanket over the chairs of the apartment, staring for hours with her gray eyes at ghosts, figments, recollections, and dust caught in oblique sunbeams, her arms streaked and pocked like relief maps of vast planets, her massive calves stuffed like forcemeat into lung-colored support hose. She was quixotically vain about her appearance and spent an hour each morning making up her face.
"Eat," Ethel snapped, depositing in front of Joe a stack of black rectangles and a pool of yellow mucilage that she felt obliged to identify for him as toast and eggs. He popped a forkful into his mouth and chewed it with a circumspect expression behind which Sammy thought he detected a hint of genuine disgust.
Sammy performed the rapid series of operations—which combined elements of the folding of wet laundry, the shoveling of damp ashes, and the swallowing of a secret map on the point of capture by enemy troops—that passed, in his mother's kitchen, for eating. Then he stood up, wiped his lips with the back of his hand, and pulled on his good wool blazer. "Come on, Joe, we gotta go." He leaned down to embed a kiss in Bubble's suede cheek.
Joe dropped his spoon and, in the course of retrieving it, bumped
"I see," said Josef. He seemed to take up the challenge. "I would draw a breathing of wind." He scratched five quick horizontal lines on a scrap of paper. "Then I would put such small things, so." He sprinkled his staff with stars and curlicues and broken musical notation.
"Nice," said Sammy. "Josef, I tell you what. I'm going to try to do better than just get you a job drawing the Gravmonica Friction-Powered Mouth Organ, all right? I'm going to get us into the big money."
"The big money," Josef said, looking suddenly hungry and gaunt. "That would be good of you, Sammy. I need some of the very big money. Yes, all right."
Sammy was startled by the avidity in his cousin's face. Then he realized what the money was wanted for, which made him feel a little afraid. It was hard enough being a disappointment to himself and Ethel without having to worry about four starving Jews in Czechoslovakia. But he managed to discount the tremor of doubt and reached out his hand. "All right," he said. "Shake, Josef."
Josef put forth his hand, then pulled back. He put on what he must have thought was an American accent, a weird kind of British cowboy twang, and screwed his features into a would-be James Cagney wise-guy squint. "Call me Joe," he said.
"Joe Kavalier."
"Sam Klayman."
They started to shake again, then Sammy withdrew his own hand.
"Actually," he said, feeling himself blush, "my professional name is Clay."
"Clay?"
"Yeah. I, uh, I just think it sounds more professional."
Joe nodded. "Sam Clay," he said.
"Joe Kavalier."
They shook hands.
"Boys!" called Mrs. Klayman from the kitchen. "Breakfast."
"Just don't say anything about any of this to my mother," Sammy said. "And don't tell her I'm changing my name."
They went out to the laminate table in the kitchen and sat down in two of the padded chrome chairs. Bubbie, who had never met any of her Czech progeny, was sitting beside Joe, ignoring him completely. She had encountered, for better or worse, so many human beings since 1846 that she seemed to have lost the inclination, perhaps even the ability, to acknowledge faces or events that dated from any time after the Great War, when she had performed the incomparable feat of leaving Lemberg, the city of her birth, at the age of seventy, to come to America with the youngest of her eleven children. Sammy had never felt himself to be anything more, in Bubble's eyes, than a kind of vaguely beloved shadow from which the familiar features of dozens of earlier children and grandchildren, some of them dead sixty years, peered out. She was a large, boneless woman who draped herself like an old blanket over the chairs of the apartment, staring for hours with her gray eyes at ghosts, figments, recollections, and dust caught in oblique sunbeams, her arms streaked and pocked like relief maps of vast planets, her massive calves stuffed like forcemeat into lung-colored support hose. She was quixotically vain about her appearance and spent an hour each morning making up her face.
"Eat," Ethel snapped, depositing in front of Joe a stack of black rectangles and a pool of yellow mucilage that she felt obliged to identify for him as toast and eggs. He popped a forkful into his mouth and chewed it with a circumspect expression behind which Sammy thought he detected a hint of genuine disgust.
Sammy performed the rapid series of operations—which combined elements of the folding of wet laundry, the shoveling of damp ashes, and the swallowing of a secret map on the point of capture by enemy troops—that passed, in his mother's kitchen, for eating. Then he stood up, wiped his lips with the back of his hand, and pulled on his good wool blazer. "Come on, Joe, we gotta go." He leaned down to embed a kiss in Bubble's suede cheek.
Joe dropped his spoon and, in the course of retrieving it, bumped
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