Everett mostly sticks to the broad outlines of Twain’s novel. He is riding the same currents; the book flows inexorably, like a river, yet its short chapters keep the movement swift. James is on the run, of course, because he has learned that Miss Watson plans to sell him to a man in New Orleans. He will be separated from his wife and children. Huck is on the run because he has faked his own death after being beaten by his father. They find each other on an island in the Mississippi, and their flight begins. The reader slowly discovers that their bonds run deeper than friendship.
There are familiar large scenes, like Huck and James’s separation in a fog, and their encounter with the deadly con artists, the Duke and the King. But smaller moments are reproduced as well, such as James’s suffering after a rattlesnake bite and Huck’s need to dress like a girl to disguise his identity.
Other scenes drop out, and Everett shifts the setting forward two decades or so, so that we glimpse Union soldiers marching south. New scenes are inserted. I will mention only one, because it is so extraordinary and so deft. At one point James is bought by the Virginia Minstrels, a blackface singing troupe. (They really existed; Twain was a fan.) They need a new tenor, and they’ve heard him singing for his brutal new owner. Because no Black man can appear on a stage, James must himself put on blackface. The moment is ludicrous and terrifying. The troupe includes 10 white men in blackface, “one Black man passing for white and painted black, and me, a light-brown Black man painted black in such a way as to appear like a white man trying to pass for Black.”
In these scenes, Everett makes potent use of the era’s songbook. He also delivers this unforgettable moment, when James in disguise is allowed, for the first time, to stare into the eyes of his oppressors:
White people came out and lined the street, smiling and laughing and clapping. I made eye contact with a couple of people in the crowd and the way they looked at me was different from any contact I had ever had with white people. They were open to me, but what I saw, looking into them, was hardly impressive. They sought to share this moment of mocking me, mocking darkies, laughing at the poor slaves, with joyful, spirited clapping and stomping.
My idea of hell would be to live with a library that contained only reimaginings of famous novels. It’s a wet-brained and dutiful genre, by and large. Or the results are brittle spoofs — to use a word that, according to John Barth, sounds like imperfectly suppressed flatulence — that read as if there are giant scare quotes surrounding the action. Two writers in a hundred walk away unscathed.
“James” is the rarest of exceptions. It should come bundled with Twain’s novel. It is a tangled and subversive homage, a labor of rough love. “His humor and humanity affected me long before I became a writer,” Everett writes of Twain in his acknowledgments. “Heaven for the climate; hell for my long-awaited lunch with Mark Twain.”
