Utopia Avenue

by David Mitchell

  —

  “ELF HOLLOWAY IS a dyke,” stated Imogen.

  Elf sat very still. Imogen was in Malvern, a hundred and forty miles away, and not riding on the 97 bus in South Kensington.

  “Dyke,” repeated Imogen’s voice. “Dyke, dyke, dyke.”

  Elf was either mad or hallucinating her voice.

  “You sleep with boys to hide what you are,” said Imogen’s voice. “And you’ve fooled your friends, you’ve fooled our parents, you’ve fooled Bea, you’ve half fooled yourself—but you can’t fool me. I’m your big sister. I know when you’re lying. I always did. I know what you’re thinking even as you think it. Bruce is camouflage. Isn’t he, Your Dykeness?”

  Elf shut her eyes and told herself this was the acid-spiked Coca-Cola. Imogen wasn’t here. She wasn’t going mad. Truly mad people don’t query their own sanity.

  Rubbish, said Imogen’s voice. And I note you haven’t denied that you’re a dyke. Have you, Your Dykeness?

  Sitting meekly and pretending nothing was wrong and odd was, itself, wrong and odd, but Elf didn’t know what else to do. A taxi would get her home more quickly, but if none appeared, she might start tripping by a wintry Hyde Park. She might imagine she’s a fish out of water and jump into the Serpentine and drown.

  “Good riddance to bad rubbish. You’re fat. Your songs are stupid. You look like a man in a wig. You’re a failure. Your music is a joke. Bea only talks to you out of pity…”

  * * *

  —

  “GOLLY, YOU’RE RIGHT about the loos.” Bea sits down, here and now, in the Gioconda Café, on a lovely day in April, a hundred nights after Elf huddled under her blanket in her flat waiting for the Imogen of the Mind to subside. “It really is a Journey to the Center of the Earth. I heard magma flows bubbling through the tiled floor.” Bea sees the lovers in the doorway across Denmark Street, still snogging. “My, those two are going for it.”

  “I know. I don’t know where to look.”

  “I do. He’s a hunk. I like her miniskirt. Remember Mum’s verdict on minis? ‘If the goods aren’t for sale…’ ”

  “ ‘…don’t put ’em in the window.’ ”

  The lovers pull away, their fingers intertwined until the last moment. They turn, take a few paces, turn again, and wave.

  “It’s like ballet,” says Bea.

  People sweep up and down Denmark Street. Elf twists a silver ring she bought from a market stall in King’s Lynn on a sunny Sunday before a Fletcher & Holloway gig. Bruce didn’t buy it for her—giving rings isn’t his style—but it’s proof that the Sunday was real, that there was a time when he loved her.

  “So when’s Bruce due back from France?” asks Bea.

  * * *

  —

  YESTERDAY, ELF CAME home exhausted after eight hours of rehearsals. Waiting for her was a phone bill, an invitation for Fletcher & Holloway to play at a folk club last August in the Outer Hebrides, and a postcard of the Eiffel Tower. The mere sight of his handwriting tautened her innards:

  Elf catalogued her thoughts. First, exasperation that the bastard had sent only one miserly card after a hundred days of nothing. Second, anger at its breezy tone—as if Bruce hadn’t bruised her heart, sliced Fletcher & Holloway in half, and left her to sort out the mess. Third, a mortifying bliss at the “Dear,” the “Wombat” and “Kangaroo,” the “avec bises”…and dismay at the “flat upstairs I share.” Share with whom? “Très amicable” French girls? Fourth, suspicion that the “Hope we’re still friends” is a hedge-bet—as if Bruce is lining up a bed for when he gets back to London. Fifth, fresh anger at the way Bruce uses her. Sixth, a resolve to slam the door in his face if he shows up at Livonia Street. Seventh, a dread that she won’t be able to. Eighth, disgust that one measly little postcard could still trigger a bout of Brucesickness. Elf ran a hot bath. She climbed in and read The Golden Notebook by Doris Lessing to take her mind off Bruce Fletcher, but in the event Bruce Fletcher took her mind off Doris Lessing. Elf kept imagining him and a French girl having baths together, him wearing nothing but his corks-on-strings hat…

  * * *

  —

  “BRUCE IS STAYING in Paris a little longer,” Elf tells Bea. A blind man walks by with his guide dog. “Australians like to see as much of Europe as they can when they’re here.” Elf turns to Bea, so she won’t think Elf’s avoiding eye contact.

  “Happy Together” by the Turtles comes on the radio.

  “So is Fletcher and Holloway on hiatus?” asks Bea.

  The worst part is lying to Bea, thinks Elf. “Kind of.”

  “While you’re recording with Utopia Avenue?”

  Elf notices a cigarette lighter wedged between the ketchup and the HP Sauce bottles. On the side is enameled a red devil with a pitchfork, horns, and tail. She flicks the spark wheel and a flame appears. “I wonder if one of those dishy art students forgot it.”

  “What dishy art students?”

  Elf snorts. “You’ll have to do better than that at RADA.”

  Bea does Bea’s impish smile. “If this was a story, one of them would come back in and say, ‘Have you seen a lighter?’ and you’d say, ‘What, this lighter?’ and he’d say, ‘Thank God, my dying mother gave it to me on her deathbed’ and your fates would be entwined forevermore.”

  Elf’s smile is swallowed by a mighty yawn. “Sorry.”

  “You must be exhausted, poor thing. You were up at six?”

  “Five. Graveyard-shift sessions are cheaper. Howie Stoker may be a millionaire playboy but he’s not throwing money at Utopia Avenue willy-nilly.”

  “Are you making money, if it’s not a rude question?”

  “It’s not. We’re not. We’ve only done four gigs and our fee is minuscule. Minuscule gets divided five ways. I was earning more when I was headlining at folk festivals.”

  “So you’re all paying to be in the band?”

  “Kind of. I’ve still got a trickle of Wanda Virtue money coming in. Jasper’s eking out an inheritance from his grandfather and stays at a flat his father owns in Mayfair. Dean’s moved in with Jasper, so he’s rent-free too. Griff’s living in an uncle’s back garden in Battersea. I should’ve invited you into Fungus Hut just now to introduce you, but I…was sick of the sight of them.”

  “Oh dear. What did they do?”

  Elf hesitates. “Their default response to any of my ideas is to tell me why it’s no good. An hour later, they’ll arrive at the same idea—and truly not remember me saying it. Drives me mental.”

  “Theater’s the same. It’s as if ‘female director’ is an oxymoron, like ‘woman prime minister.’ Are they always that bad?”

  Elf makes a face. “Not always. Dean shoots his mouth off, but it comes from insecurity. I think. On charitable days.”

  “Is he good-looking?”

  “Girls think so.”

  Bea makes a face.

  “No no no. Never in a million years. Griff the drummer’s a northern diamond in the rough. Anarchic, sweary, likes a drink. Great drummer. He’s more at home in his skin than Dean. Jasper’s…Mr. Enigma. Sometimes he’s so spaced-out he’s barely there. Other times he’s so intensely there, he uses all the oxygen in the room. Don’t tell Mum and Dad, but he was in a psychiatric clinic in Holland for a while, and sometimes you think, Yes, I believe it. He reads a lot. Went to boarding school at Ely—there’s real money on the Dutch side of his family. You should hear him play guitar, though. When he’s on form, words fail me.”

  “Two coffees”—Mrs. Biggs arrives—“and a bacon butty.” The sisters thank her and Elf takes a big bite. “Dear God, I needed that.”

  Bea asks, “So what does Utopia Avenue sound like?”

  Elf chews. “A mix of Dean’s R&B, Jasper’s strange virtuosity, my folk roots, Griff’s jazz…I only hope the world’s ready for us.”


  “How have the gigs gone?”

  “Our debut was abysmal. It ended with Griff getting hit by a bottle. He had to go to hospital. He’s got a Frankenstein scar.”

  Bea covers her mouth. “Jesus Christ. You never said.”

  “We were this far”—Elf indicates half an inch—“from packing it in. Levon bullied us into going to our second gig, at the Goldhawk club. That went better. Until some Archie Kinnock fans showed up to hurl abuse at Griff and Jasper for ‘stabbing Archie in the back.’ We left round the back. Our third gig was at the White Horse in Tottenham, where ten people showed up. Ten. Then, joy of joys, some folkies arrived at the end to berate me for ‘taking the thirty pieces of silver.’ ”

  “That must have been horrible. What did you say?”

  “ ‘What silver?’ The landlord refused to pay. Levon preferred to stay on decent terms than get shirty, so my earnings for that night was half a shandy and a packet of nuts.”

  “I only wish you’d told me.”

  “You’ve got exams and auditions to worry about. I chose all this. Mum would call it making my bed and lying in it.”

  Bea lights a cigarette. “What about the fourth show?”

  Elf chews a crispy bacon rind. “The Marquee.”

  “What? You played the Marquee? The Marquee? And you didn’t invite me?”

  Elf nods. “Don’t hate me.”

  “Why didn’t you say? I’d have rounded up half of Richmond!”

  “I know. What if we were booed off?”

  The crackle and sizzle of deep-frying escapes the kitchen.

  Bea looks uncertain. “Were you booed off?”

  Elf drops a sugar lump into her coffee and stirs…

  * * *

  —

  THE MARQUEE ON Wardour Street was an underground tank of a venue, sloshing with a crowd of six or seven hundred. If someone had died, they would have stayed propped upright until after midnight. Elf was close to puking out of sheer fear. Utopia Avenue were second on a five-band bill entitled Anything Can Happen, arranged in order of fame, set-length, and fee. Below Utopia Avenue was a five-piece from Plymouth called Doomed to Obscurity. Above them were three major acts: Traffic, whose single “Paper Sun” was camped in the Top Five; Pink Floyd, London’s underground band heading overground; and Cream, whose LP Fresh Cream was spinning on a million teenagers’ turntables. A rumor was squirreling about that Jimi Hendrix was in the venue, or had been, or would be. Steve Winwood was in the office, just up those stairs, being interviewed by Amy Boxer for the NME. God knows what strings Levon had pulled to get Utopia Avenue on this bill, but Anything Can Happen was their biggest showcase so far. If they fluffed it, the gig could be their last showcase, too.

  Elf had watched Doomed to Obscurity from the side, hoping they’d fulfill the promise of their name. None of the Pink Floyd, Traffic, or Cream fans called for an encore. “Shift over a mo, Elf.” Levon and a Marquee dogsbody were staggering past with her Hammond. Elf fought an impulse to flee…

  * * *

  —

  …AND SUDDENLY IT was time. Elf ordered her body onstage. Griff was setting up his kit. Dean and Jasper found the amp levels they’d marked at the sound check earlier. Elf’s body didn’t move. Her left hand was trembling, like her gran’s who had died of Parkinson’s. They had a thirty-minute slot. What if she pooched her chords on the “Darkroom” middle eighth? What if the crowd hated the electric “Any Way the Wind Blows”? What if the words flew out of her head on “A Raft and a River,” like they had done at the White Horse?

  “You’ll be fine,” said Sandy Denny.

  “You’re always here when I need you.”

  “Moroccan courage?” The singer offered her a lit joint.

  “Yes.” Elf inhaled, held down the peaty smoke, and let it all out again. The buzz was instant. “Thanks.”

  “A big crowd,” said Sandy. “I’m mildly jealous.”

  “They’re not here for us.” Elf’s fingertips buzzed.

  “Oh, don’t talk bollocks, nobody’s—” Sandy flapped out a hand and splashed a passing roadie’s beer. “Oops, sorry, mate. I’ve heard you rehearse. You’ve got something, you four. Just let it out. And if, if, the crowd are too stupid to appreciate it”—Sandy slapped the Marshall stack—“crank these monsters up. Atomize the bastards.”

  Dean appeared. “Hi, Sandy. Elf. Ready to go?”

  Elf noticed her hand was steady again. “Do or die.”

  “Later, we shall imbibe spirits,” promised Sandy.

  Elf walked out and took her place at the keyboards. A chubby heckler leaning on the stage yelled out, “Strip joint’s over the road, darlin’!” and his goons laughed. Liberated by the dope from a fear of consequences, Elf made a pistol with her fingers, aimed at the heckler’s eyes, and—her face deadly serious—mimed shooting him, three times, complete with recoil at the elbow. The heckler’s stupid grin faded. Elf blew away imaginary gun smoke, twirled her make-believe pistol around her trigger finger, slipped it into a make-believe holster, and leaned into her mic. The Marquee’s impresario was supposed to introduce the band, but Elf waved him away. “We are Utopia Avenue,” she told the Marquee, Soho, and all England, “and we intend to shoot you down.” She glanced at Griff, who looked surprised, holding his sticks poised in his Go position; at Dean, whose approving nod told her, Ready; at Jasper, who was waiting for Elf’s “A-one, a-two, and a—”

  * * *

  —

  ELF DROPS A second sugar cube into her coffee. “It went pretty well. We started with ‘Any Way the Wind Blows.’ Then one of Dean’s rockier numbers, ‘Abandon Hope.’ Then a new song of Jasper’s, ‘Darkroom.’ Then my new one, ‘A Raft and a River.’ ”

  “Lucky Marquee. It’s not fair. When can I hear it?”

  “Soon, sis. Soon.”

  “Did you meet Steve Winwood?”

  “Well…actually, after our encore he came up and said a few kind words about my Hammond playing.”

  “Oh, my God,” says Bea. “What did you say?”

  Elf inhales coffee steam. “I just squeaked, ‘Thanks,’ blurted out some stream-of-consciousness claptrap, and watched him go.”

  “Nice bum?”

  “I honestly didn’t notice.” Sandie Shaw’s “Puppet on a String” comes on the café’s radio. “If I ever record anything this simpering, give me a stern talking-to about those thirty pieces of silver.”

  “She’s getting more than thirty pieces, I bet. This song’s everywhere.” They listen to the chorus.

  Suddenly Elf can’t stand it anymore. “We’ve split up. Me and Bruce. The duo’s finished. He’s staying in Paris. He dumped me. In February. It’s over.” Elf’s heart’s pounding as if it’s happening now. “Now you know.” I’m not going to cry. It’s been three months. She steels herself for Bea’s shock and outrage.

  Bea looks unfazed. “I guessed.”

  “How?”

  “Every time his name came up, you’d change the subject.”

  “What about Mum and Dad and Immy?”

  Bea examines her lilac fingernails. “If I’ve worked it out, Mum has. Dad’s clueless. Immy? I’m prrretty sure she’s not relying on Holloway and Fletcher for musical interludes at the wedding. Has she mentioned Bruce or your wedding booking lately?”

  Actually, no. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “Tact.” Bea drains her coffee cup. “Bruce was charming, but charm in a guy is a warning sign. Like black and yellow stripes in nature mean, Watch out, there are stings near this honey.”

  Elf is trembling and isn’t sure why. Her eyes meet the Mona Lisa’s above Mrs. Biggs’s till. The most famous half-smile tells Elf, Suffering is the promise that life always keeps.

  “I really have to be off.” Bea stands up and puts on her coat. “You go and record a masterpiece. Shall I tell Immy?”


  “Please.” It’s the path of least resistance. “And Mum.”

  “I’ll drop by your flat after the audition. If you want.”

  “Sure.” Elf looks at the clock: 8:58. “Bea, tell me something. I’ve been to university. I’ve dropped out of university. I’ve survived the music scene for three years. You’re still at school. How come you know so much while I know bugger-all? How does that work?”

  “Basically,” Bea hugs her sister goodbye, “I don’t believe people.” She lets her sister go. “Basically, you do.”

  WEDDING PRESENCE

  At the end of its eight-minute journey from the sun, light passes through the stained glass of St. Matthias Church in Richmond, London, and enters the dual darkrooms of Jasper’s eyeballs. The rods and cones packing his retinas convert the light into electrical impulses that travel along optic nerves into his brain, which translates the varying wavelengths of light into “Virgin Mary blue,” “blood of Christ red,” “Gethsemane green,” and interprets the images as twelve disciples, each occupying a segment of the cartwheel window. Vision begins in the heart of the sun. Jasper notes that Jesus’s disciples were, essentially, hippies: long hair, gowns, stoner expressions, irregular employment, spiritual convictions, dubious sleeping arrangements, and a guru. The cartwheel begins to spin, so Jasper shuts his eyes and fights the slippage by naming the twelve, rummaging through boyhood scripture classes and church services: Matthew, Mark, Luke, John, a.k.a. the Fab Four; Thomas, Jasper’s favorite, the one who demanded proof; Peter, who enjoyed the best solo career; Jude and Matthias, session players; and Judas Iscariot. Our Heavenly Father’s most sadistically deployed patsy. Before Jasper can finish off the list, however, he hears a knock. Rhythmic, faint, a sonic room or two below the vicar’s voice. Unmistakable.

  Knock-knock, knock-knock, knock-knock.

  He opens his eyes. The window has stopped spinning.