Utopia Avenue
Page 35
“It wound down months ago,” says Trix. “Time’s noisy.”
They each take one end of the sofa, drawing their feet up, and sit facing each other. “Proost, Mr. Platypus.”
“Proost.” They drink. Rum burns Jasper’s esophagus.
“How was the Paradiso?”
“The show went well, but the party afterward was too much. I slipped away when nobody was looking.”
“Your album’s selling like fresh herrings. The de Zoets of Middelburg are having an emergency board meeting about you now. Your father will be there, addressing his shareholders: ‘The family skeleton in the cupboard is playing guitar on Fenklup! What is our official policy on this?’ Your bassist is dishy.”
“Dean’s smaller in real life than he is on television.”
“The four of you look very close.”
“If you’re in a band with someone, you get to know them well.”
“Like family?”
“I’m not an expert on the subject but maybe, yes. I live with Dean. He looks out for me, I suppose. He makes sure I don’t forget things. Griff is fearless. He doesn’t worry. He’s good at living. Elf is like a sister. I imagine. She’s good at understanding what people mean. Like you. All three of them—and Levon, our manager—know about my emotional dyslexia, I think. We don’t discuss it. They just cover for me, when I need it.”
“How very English of them.” Trix lights a Turkish cigarette. “What’s it like? Stardom?”
“People kept asking me that at the Paradiso, and when I said, ‘I’m not really a star,’ they became…hard to read.”
Trix considers this. “They may think you’re holding out on them because you think them unworthy of illumination.”
“The reality isn’t at all like the fantasy.”
“When did that ever matter?”
Jasper finishes his rum and peers through the base of the glass at the candle flames, the sloping walls, draped fabrics, the electric fire, the incense-breathing Indian goddess. “I’ve missed your anthropology classes, Trix.”
“You’re the one who crossed the English Channel to find his fortune and left me tearing my hair out with misery.”
Did I? Was she? No—she’s smiling. “Irony.”
She biffs his calf with her foot. “Give the boy a prize.”
* * *
—
THE HALF-MOON SHINES in through Trix’s window onto her homemade four-poster bed. A celestial body never dies, Jasper tells the moon, but you never get to curl up with another body, either. “It’s lucky you played at the Paradiso this side of April,” says Trix. “I’m moving to Luxembourg. For good.”
“Why?”
“To marry a Luxembourger. You’re my last fling.”
You say, “Congratulations.” “Congratulations.”
“On my marriage? Or about you being my last fling?”
“I meant”—was she joking?—“your marriage.”
“Well, it’s about time. I’m not getting any younger.”
“That’s true.”
Trix’s torso twitches. She’s smiling.
“What? Was that funny? Why?”
Trix twirls Jasper’s hair around her finger. “No jealousy, no ‘How could you, how dare you?’ You’re nearly an ideal man.”
“Not many women agree.”
Trix makes a noise that may mean skepticism. “You didn’t teach yourself that trick with your tongue, did you?”
Jasper thinks of Mecca and her room above the photographer’s studio. It’s still yesterday in America. “What’ll happen to the shop when you’ve gone?”
“I’ve sold it to Niek and Harm. They’ll still get obscure LPs from Brazil and poor conservatory students will still get a discount.”
“Amsterdam won’t be the same without you.”
“Bless you, but Amsterdam won’t notice a damn thing. The city’s changed since we stayed up late redesigning the future and crashing the royal wedding.” Trix traces her forefinger along Jasper’s clavicle. “Remember the free white bicycles? Nobody repairs them now. People think, Why can’t somebody else do it? Or they paint them black and lock ’em up. Provo is winding down. New revolutionaries have grabbed the megaphones. Humorless ones. The ones who quote Che Guevara like he’s a close personal friend. ‘It is better to die on your feet than live on your knees.’ They’ll say, ‘You can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs,’ as if a demonstrator’s spine, or a policeman’s skull, or an elderly widow’s window is only an egg. Time for us Utopianists to clear the stage for the Molotov-cocktail brigade. I want no part of it.”
“Who is the future Monsieur Trix van Laak?”
“A horse breeder. He’s a little older, and not exactly Adonis, but he’s rich enough to be my last best suitor, smart enough to value a clever wife, and worldly enough to let my past stay in the past.” Trix taps the tip of Jasper’s nose. “His mother disapproves. She called me a social climber. I called her an Alpinist with oxygen tanks. I’ll win her around.”
An ember eats an incense stick. Sandalwood.
“You’ll ride horses every day,” says Jasper.
“I’ll ride horses every day,” agrees Trix.
* * *
—
DR. BELL OF Ely wasn’t sure about Jasper going on a twelve-hour sea crossing in the grip of a nervous breakdown with only Formaggio to mind him, but the headmaster was adamant. He had been an army cadet when he was sixteen, and a blast of sea air might be the very medicine young de Zoet needed. Jasper was too battered by Knock Knock’s campaign against his sanity to express an opinion. Telegrams had been sent to Jasper’s grandfather, who would be waiting at Hook of Holland. Later, Jasper worked out that his school’s concern was to ensure that he lost his marbles as far away from Swaffham House as possible, ideally in another country. There was a car to Harwich. Dr. Bell had entrusted Formaggio with a few pills to give to Jasper if his condition deteriorated. Before the car was halfway to Harwich, Jasper’s condition deteriorated. The knock-knock-knock-knocks were merging into one solid impact. The pills softened it, a little, but didn’t stop the assault. Jasper and Formaggio boarded the Arnhem. It was a choppy crossing. The boys sat in the second-class lounge, Formaggio only leaving him to throw his latest sick-bag over the side. Some soldiers bound for West Germany laughed at the vomiting Formaggio and pasty-looking Jasper in their poncy uniforms before, eventually, taking pity on them. “Have a mouthful o’ this, you poor bastard.” An army flask. Tea and gin, to settle their stomachs. The Arnhem docked under a late sky. The squaddies bade them good luck and were swallowed by the world. Grootvader Wim waited in his Jaguar, where the new immigration building stands. He spoke English to Formaggio. “I shan’t forget your kindness. Jasper, I’m taking you directly to a clinic near Wassenaar. All will be well. All will be well. You’re in the Netherlands now…”
* * *
—
JASPER WALKS BACK down the stairs from Trix’s room to Grafgraversgracht. By the tenth or twelfth flight of steps, he works out that his body is in Trix’s bed, far above, yet the steps carry on until the dreamer arrives at an earthen passageway. An old woman is expecting him. She places a finger on her lips—Hush!—and points to a spyhole in the wall. Jasper looks through. Beyond is an ossuary, or a prison cell, or both. Knock Knock, dressed in his ceremonial robe, sits on a whale’s jawbone holding a knife in one hand and a shinbone in the other. The bone is inscribed with notches. Like Robinson Crusoe, thinks Jasper, keeping track of days on his island. Knock Knock’s gaze meets Jasper’s. A mechanism is triggered. The two swap places. Jasper is now a prisoner in the deepest under-cellar of Knock Knock’s mind, with no hope of rescue or escape. He cannot even die his way out. The eye at the spyhole—Knock Knock’s eye—vanishes. Jasper is left alone for eternity to draw the blade across the notched shinbone, like a violin bow…
We trust our lovers not to harm us.
The bells of Osterkerke skim out five plangent chimes. Jasper borrows Trix’s brown furry bathrobe and pads to the bathroom. Ointments, jars of creams, and bottles of gloop. Avoiding the mirror, Jasper splashes water onto his face. He feels something he would call “change-ache” but he doesn’t know if it’s a real emotion or not. He goes to Trix’s kitchenette and eats an orange. He boils the kettle on the hob but takes it off the heat before the whistle wakes the lady of the house. He takes his mug of tea to Trix’s table. A silver horse with opal eyes watches him. Lines are buried in the last few hours. Carefully Jasper proceeds to excavate.
A song, a crowd, a coronation,
a merry-go-round, a deal —
a city so improbable,
it’s not exactly real.
Doctor, liar, teacher, leech;
pusher, mystic, hack—they
crashed the gates of paradise.
I snuck out through the back.
Gravedigger’s night, a sky-blue light,
a chime, the key that turned your lock.
Stairs, the dark, a magic lamp,
A fox who didn’t have to knock.
A cigarette from Istanbul,
A glass of fire and ice—
A clock that wound down months ago.
A clock we wound up, twice.
A silver horse with opal eyes,
incense from Hindustan—
I, who rarely understand,
You, who often can.
You slept on like a tiny bird,
a bell, all’s well, a far-off call—
I slept like a fugitive,
if I slept at all.
A curse, a demon, maybe worse,
a knife, a bone, a notch—
I am the lone nightwatchman.
This is my night watch.
ROLL AWAY THE STONE
Six policemen enter the check-in hall at Rome airport, followed by a chief who removes his sunglasses and scans the crowd. Dean imagines a gunfight between the cops and the businessmen at the Aeroflot counter, who turn out to be KGB. Screams, havoc, blood. Dean dodges the bullets to rescue that hot signorina in the pink jacket. The KGB guys are shot. The King of Italy pins a medal onto Dean. The signorina in pink takes Dean to meet her father, whose castle sits atop a hundred acres of vineyard. “I ’ave no sons of my own,” he hugs the brave Son of Albion, “until today…”
Back in reality, the chief is joined by a photographer.
He looks familiar. He is. He did a shoot of the band at their hotel. He spots Dean, Griff, Jasper, and Levon, and points. The chief strides over, his men following in V-formation. He doesn’t look like he’s after an autograph. “Uh…” says Dean. “Levon?”
Levon’s speaking with the clerk. “One moment, Dean.”
“I’m afraid we don’t have that long.”
The chief is here. “You is the gruppo Utopia Avenue?”
“How can we help you, officer?” asks Levon.
“I am Captain Ferlinghetti, Guardia di Finanza. This.” He taps the leather bag Levon has strapped to his chest. “What is in?”
“Documents. Valuables.”
He makes a beckoning gesture. “Show.” Levon obeys. Captain Ferlinghetti removes the envelope. “What is?”
“Two thousand dollars. The band’s earnings from the four gigs. Legal earnings, Captain. Our promoter, Enzo Endrizzi—”
“No, is not legal.” The captain stuffs the money into his pocket. “All. You come. Now. There are questions.”
Levon is too stunned to move. They all are. “What?”
“Make concerti in Italia, profit in Italia, taxation in Italia.”
“But our paperwork’s in order. Look.” Levon unfolds a receipt in Italian. “This is from our promoter. It’s officially—”
Captain Ferlinghetti declares: “No. Not valido.”
Levon changes timbre. “Is this a shakedown?”
“We make arrest here? For me is same.” The officer addresses the clerk at the Alitalia desk in rapid-fire Italian. Dean catches the word “passaporti.”
Nervously, the clerk holds out their passports—which Dean snatches and puts into his jacket pocket.
Captain Ferlinghetti thrusts his face into Dean’s. “GIVE.”
I know a bent copper when I see one. “Our flight leaves in half an hour. We’re going to be on it. With our bloody money. So—”
Pain splits Dean from his groin. The departure hall spins. Dean’s cheek smacks the floor. A supernova detonates, inches from his face: a flashbulb. Levon remonstrates. Dean’s vision recovers. The photographer is closing in for a floor-level shot. Dean swivels and launches a horse-kick. His heel crunches plastic and lens against jawbone. A scream. Boots pound Dean. He curls into a fetal position, protecting his hands and balls. “Bastard! Bastard!” yells Captain Ferlinghetti; or, “Basta! Basta!” The kicking stops. Dean’s wrists are yanked behind his back and cuffed. The passports are removed from his jacket. He is hauled onto his feet. Griff is objecting, swearily. Orders are dispensed in Italian. The party is marched off. “There’ll be legal consequences,” Levon was saying, “I promise you.”
“Conseguenze is only beginning now.” Captain Ferlinghetti puts his sunglasses on. “I promise you.”
* * *
—
“WHAT A WHIRLWIND,” Elf said to Dean. “Amsterdam in March, six nights supporting the Hollies…now Italy. By airplane.”
Dean peered out. Their plane had reached the top of the runway. “Well, ‘Purple Flames’ is number nine there. Did I mention that? Can’t quite recall.”
“Not for ten minutes, at least,” says Elf.
“Levon should’ve held out for first-class tickets.”
“Right, and I should’ve insisted on Gregory Peck meeting me at the airport to drive me around like Audrey Hepburn.”
Dean checked on Jasper in the aisle seat. He was sickly pale, hiding behind sunglasses and chewing gum. “Cheer up, matey. If we drop like a rock we can do bugger-all about it, so why worry?”
Jasper’s fingers gripped the armrest.
The stewardess spoke over the intercom: “Please check that your seatbelts are securely fastened…” Mighty engines revved. The airplane vibrated.
Elf peered past Jasper and Griff to ask Levon, “Is this normal?”
“Totally. The pilot’s got one foot on the gas and one on the brake, so when he releases the brake, the plane is hot off the—”
The passengers were pressed back as the Comet 4 lurched forward. A “woooooo” filled the cabin and Dean found Elf’s fingers digging into his wrist…Everything juddered, rain beads on the window became rain streaks, the floor tilted upward, the horizon tilted down, the airplane lifted, Elf muttered, “Oh my God oh my God oh my God…” Below, depots, a multistory car park, trees, a reservoir, the M4 and trunk roads dropped…A soggy life-size model of England; the snaking Thames, Richmond Park, the ark-like glasshouse in Kew Gardens…then the window went misty; the fuselage shook as if gripped and shaken by a giant hand. Elf asked, “Is that normal?”
“Just a little turbulence,” said Levon. “It’s fine.”
Dean tapped Elf’s hand. “Elf…my wrist?”
“Oh, God, sorry. It looks like a dog bit you. Oh…Jesus, look—at—that!” They saw clouds from above. Sunlit, snow-white, and mauve; whipped, rum
pled, and steel-brushed…
“Ray ain’t never going to believe this,” said Dean.
“How would you capture that,” asked Elf, “musically?”
“Jasper,” said Dean, “yer’ve got to see this. Really.”
Jasper, if he heard Dean, ignored him. So Dean and Elf watched the clouds. “That’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever, ever seen,” said Elf.
“Me, too.” A slight tickling sensation alerted Dean to a strand of Elf’s hair caught on his stubble. He gently untangled it. “I’ll return this to its rightful owner.”
* * *
—
TWO COPS FROM the snatch squad sit with the band in the back of the police van. It’s similar to a Black Maria on the inside, Dean notes. Benches run along the walls and light comes only through a thick grille along the top of the driver’s compartment. Dean’s midriff, arse, and groin are already throbbing with future bruises. His hands are still cuffed. The guards light up. They have handguns. “Hey, pal,” Dean asks. “Amico. Cigarette, per favore?”
The guard’s amused headshake means, “ ‘Amico’? Really?”
“That money in your bag,” Griff asks Levon. “It is legit?”
“Entirely,” says Levon. “But it’s not in my bag anymore.”
“Wasn’t carrying it all in cash a bit risky?” asks Griff.
“If you think carrying cash is risky,” Levon retorts, “try accepting a check from a foreign promoter you’ve never worked with. Watch it get magically canceled by the time you’re home.”
“That copper knew yer had it,” says Dean, “and which bag yer were carrying it in, too. Bloody fishy, if yer ask me.”
Levon sighs. “Yup. Only Enzo knew I had it.”
Griff asks, “Why would our own promoter rat us off?”
“Enzo keeps the net profit on five sold-out theater shows. The captain gets a juicy slice. Everything’s hunky-dory. Fuck it. I should’ve brought Bethany with us to spirit the money home separately. Getting fleeced in showbiz is the price of admission, but I thought I’d paid my dues. Now, if Enzo swoops in to straighten this out, I’ll owe him an apology. But if he stays AWOL, we’ll know.”