Chapter 41 My Sword Is Still Sharp

Enny, lost in thought, once again examined Stanley before him.

The "Stan Lee" known to future generations was a pen name Stanley first used when he became editor-in-chief at Timely Comics, specifically during the third issue of Captain America.

But at this moment, the superhero Captain America had yet to be introduced, so Stanley was still using his real name.

“Oh, Mr. Reiser, could you please sign this for me?” Stanley suddenly slapped his forehead, remembering this important matter.

“Of course!”

Seeing Enny so approachable, Stanley was thrilled and quickly returned to his room to fetch a copy of last month’s Amazing Stories and a drawing pen.

Enny signed his name on Amazing Stories. Fortunately, his handwriting was decent enough to avoid a childish-looking signature.

Stanley wanted to continue chatting with Enny, but Joe Simon’s voice called from upstairs: “Stanley! Clean up the ashes off the floor!”

Being so ordered about, Stanley showed no embarrassment or displeasure, only apologizing, “Mr. Reiser, I have to get back! Hope we meet again.”

Enny nodded and suddenly recalled that Stanley would later be responsible for creating Captain America comics. He urged Stanley, “Let’s exchange contact information.”

“Sure,” Stanley said, scratching his head, “but my home doesn’t have a phone. Let’s use the office number.”

After exchanging numbers, Stanley happily said goodbye and went back into his room.

Young Stanley was unaware that Enny’s real motive for exchanging contacts was to prod him for more work.

An artist’s normal output was six or seven pages a day. With effort, working a full 24 hours, producing eighteen or nineteen pages was quite normal. If the left hand got tired, switch to the right; grit one’s teeth and double the output—it was all very doable. That way, a whole issue could be completed.

One issue per person, no less, lest others think he was slacking!

A devilish smile played on Enny’s face—strict with others but lenient with himself.

...

The next day, early morning.

Newsboys, out to earn some money for their families, shouted hoarsely while selling The New York Times. The headline featured a stark photo of London’s ruins after bombing.

Passersby stopped the newsboys, purchasing papers. Men gathered around, reading war reports with furrowed brows; women whispered among themselves, their faces pale and drawn. Cars drove past the readers, splashing water, provoking curses from the crowd.

...

The tender cries of newsboys, the roar of automobiles, the shouts of men and women, and the upstairs baby’s wails all mingled in the air.

Enny stirred under the covers, stretching and yawning sleepily as he rose.

Rubbing his eyes, he heard the “pitter-patter” of crawling sounds from upstairs. The little crying baby was already crawling now, though just as prone to tears as before.

Enny mused inwardly, this peculiar way of witnessing new life growing brought a helpless smile to his lips.

But truly, he had grown accustomed to the morning cacophony—it was like an alarm clock. When he first moved into the Carlisle Hotel, it felt strange, so he only stayed there while writing, spending the rest of his time at home.

Enny stretched lazily. Michi, up even earlier, admired herself in the mirror, wearing a beige shirt dress she’d bought from Bloomingdale’s—twenty-three dollars and ten cents well spent—all on her own dime, without costing Enny a cent.

Seeing Enny get up, Michi suddenly turned her head, her bright blue eyes sparkling with mischief.

Enny was opening the window to let in fresh air when a chill ran down his back. Turning around, he met Michi’s clear, cunning gaze.

“What are you up to?”

“Enny… bro, don’t worry, I’m not going to eat you—after all, you’re not German.”

Enny suspected trouble. Frowning, he preempted her: “Don’t expect me to buy such expensive dresses again. I’d rather spend that money taking you out for a feast. New clothes are just traps of consumerism, you know.”

“That’s not what I was talking about!” Michi huffed, pouting. “When you bought Mom that necklace, why didn’t you talk about consumerism then?”

“Jewelry’s worth more than fabric,” Enny said with a hint of male logic. “As for why I didn’t say anything about Mom… because you’re the easy one to bully.”

As he spoke, Enny raised his hand and flicked Michi’s forehead—a sharp, crisp sound, pleasant like a good rap on the head.

“Ah!”

Michi screamed, clutching her smooth, fair forehead, tears welling at the corners of her eyes.

She rubbed her forehead, and after a moment lowered her hand—Enny’s month of working out had made his flicks stronger, leaving a vivid red mark right in the center of her forehead.

“Pfft!” Enny couldn’t help laughing out loud—the red mark was perfectly placed, like the mark of Erlang Shen.

“Waaah…” Michi glared with sparkling watery eyes, sobbing in a choked voice.

Oh no!

Enny’s heart sank as Michi suddenly shouted outside, “Mom—!”

Mary, cooking breakfast in the kitchen, shook her head. Life with children was always chaotic.

Of course, Mary paid no mind to this daily occurrence. After Michi fussed for a while, Enny had to give her twenty cents pocket money to calm her down.

Only then did Michi wipe her tears away. Though the red mark was still on her forehead, her tearful, wronged expression quickly faded.

She grabbed Enny’s arm, preventing him from going to breakfast, finally speaking her mind: “I want to write a novel too!”

Enny: “...Huh?”

Michi smiled confidently. “You can make money as a writer—we’re both from the same mother. I can do it too! Enny, when I finish my novel, you’ll be my editor. I want to earn money on my own!”

Enny: “...”

He felt Michi radiate pure courage, as if about to declare, “My sword is not without strength.”

“If you don’t agree, then no breakfast for you,” Michi pouted, clinging to his arm and acting stubborn.

“All right, all right, I promise. But when I edit your work, I won’t go easy on you,” Enny reluctantly compromised.

After the morning commotion, the family sat down to breakfast as usual.

George ate while unfolding the newspaper he’d bought downstairs—the New York Times. The watch on his left wrist was still his old Ingersoll; the Rolex was carefully stored away, even Enny didn’t know where.

George read a few pages and then turned on the radio to listen to CBS’s morning program, Today in Europe. Michi was listening to an entertainment show on her own radio but reluctantly lowered the volume when George frowned.

Static crackled in the background before the solemn opening music played.

“Good morning, listeners. This is Today in Europe.”

“July 10, 1940, will be a day forever etched in history...”

...