Utopia Avenue

by David Mitchell

  Imogen turns to run upstairs but her mum’s blocking the way, so she spins back and lurches through the kitchen into the garden.

  “I thought she’d be upstairs,” says Lawrence’s dad.

  “It’s the message, Ron,” Elf’s mum assures him, “not the messenger. I’ll go and be with her.”

  Elf makes a vinaigrette while Bea chops cucumber. The sound of the lawnmower stops. Elf’s mum comes in, looking shaky. Elf’s dad’s with her. “Immy wants to be alone,” she explains.

  “I’m so sorry,” repeats Mr. Sinclair. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be, Ron,” says Elf’s dad. “She had to hear somehow, and now it’s over and done with, she can…process the news. It’s for the best.” He goes to call his office from the phone in the hall.

  Bea switches on Radio 3 for sonic cover. It’s twiddly Mozart.

  Imogen returns from the garden, red-eyed and distraught.

  It’s a play, thinks Elf. Exits and entrances, nonstop.

  “There’s salad, pet,” says Mrs. Sinclair.

  “I’m not hungry.” Imogen goes upstairs. Lawrence follows. Elf remembers the engagement lunch at Chislehurst Road in February last year. If we could read the script of the future, we’d never turn the page. Elf’s mum announces, “I think I’ll pop out to the shops. A bit of fresh air will do me good.”

  Bea and Elf clear up the dishes. A few minutes later, they hear Imogen, sobbing.

  “It’s a tough time,” says Mr. Sinclair.

  “The toughest,” agrees Elf’s dad.

  A news bulletin comes on Radio 3. Riots and arrests in Paris have continued all morning. “We didn’t have a university education given to us on a plate,” says Elf’s dad, “did we, Ron?”

  “That’s the problem, Clive. It is given them on a plate, so they don’t value it. They smash it up like spoiled toddlers. It’s all these lefty yobboes. At British Leyland, management can’t show their faces without eggs and abuse. Where’s it all going to end?”

  “The entire world,” says Elf’s dad, “has lost its mind.”

  “Was there any of this in Italy last week, Elf?” asks Mr. Sinclair.

  Elf explains that the tour was a week-long treadmill of van travel, setting up, performing, and grabbing what sleep you could before the next day’s drive. “Martians could have invaded and we wouldn’t have noticed.”

  After coffee, Bea announces that she’ll return to the hotel. “I’m surplus to requirements here. I’ve got to write an essay on Brecht.” The good-natured exchange between Elf’s and Lawrence’s fathers over who’ll run Bea back to the Cricketer’s Arms is settled by Bea, who puts her coat on and says, “I’m walking.”

  A little later, Lawrence comes downstairs, whispering, “She’s taken a pill, she’s sleeping now.” He goes out too.

  “You can’t beat a bit of fresh air,” says Elf’s dad.

  “Quite right,” agrees Mr. Sinclair. “Quite right…”

  Elf tries calling Moonwhale a third time. The line’s still engaged. She tries the Duke-Stoker Agency. She can’t get through. She tries Jasper’s flat. Nobody replies. She asks her dad if today’s a bank holiday. “Definitely not, pet,” says her dad. “Why?”

  It feels as if Utopia Avenue has ceased to exist. “Nothing.”

  * * *

  —

  CUT GRASS SCENTS the tepid air. Elf borrows secateurs and gloves from the shed and gets to work on the brambles and weeds at the far end of the garden. Fronds of willow sway. Bluebells uncoil from Midland clay. A song thrush is warbling nearby. Yesterday’s? It’s still invisible. Elf thinks about her flat, empty for a week, and hopes all is well. The door is sturdy and the windows inaccessible, but Soho is Soho. The bottle of milk in the fridge will have curdled by now.

  “You missed a bit,” says Imogen’s voice.

  Elf looks up. Her sister is wearing a duffel coat over her dressing gown and Wellington boots. The glimmer of humor in her remark is absent from her face. “I’m leaving the nettles. They’re good for butterflies. New fashion trend or what?”

  Imogen sits on the low wall dividing the upper lawn from the sunken, boggier end. “I was a bit wobbly, earlier.”

  “Be as wobbly as you damn well want.”

  Imogen looks at the house. She snaps a twig.

  “Shall I ask everyone to give you space?” asks Elf.

  A noisy motorbike churns up the midday suburban drowse.

  “No. Stay. Please. I’m afraid of the silent house.”

  The motorbike drives off. Its racket fades to nothing.

  “Each time I wake,” says Imogen, “just for a moment, I’ve forgotten. The misery’s there, pressing in, but I’ve forgotten why it’s there. So for that moment, he’s back. Alive. In his cot. He was starting to recognize us. He’d just started smiling. You saw. Then…” Imogen shuts her eyes, “…I remember, and…it’s Saturday morning, all over again.”

  “Fucking hell, Ims,” says Elf. “It must be torture.”

  “Yes. Yet when the torture ends…when I stop feeling this…he really will be gone. That torture’s all I’ve got of him. Torture and breast milk.”

  A bee heavily laden with pollen draws ovals in the air.

  I have no idea what to say, thinks Elf. None.

  Imogen looks at the pile of weeds Elf has pulled up.

  “Sorry if I uprooted any botanical marvels,” says Elf.

  “Lawrence and I were thinking of putting in a gazebo down here. Maybe now we’ll just leave it to the bluebells.”

  “Can’t argue with bluebells. They even smell blue.”

  “I brought Mark out here, when they were blooming properly. Three or four times. That was all. Those were the only times he…felt the Great Outdoors on his face.” Imogen looks away, then at her hands. Her nails are a mess. “You assume you have forever. We had seven weeks. Forty-nine days. Even the bluebells lasted longer.”

  A snail is crawling up the brickwork. Gluey life.

  “It was a tricky birth,” says Elf. “You had to recover.”

  “It wasn’t just a torn perineum. There was uterine damage, and…it turns out, I—I…can’t get pregnant again.”

  Elf is very still. The day carries on. “That’s definite?”

  “The gynecologist says it’s ‘extremely unlikely.’ I asked, ‘How extremely?’ He said, ‘Mrs. Sinclair, “extremely unlikely” is the gynecological term for “will not happen.” ’ ”

  “Does Lawrence know?”

  “No. I was waiting for the right moment. Then…Saturday—” Imogen tries to reel in the right verb but fails. “So I’ve just told you, instead of my husband. I’ll never be a mother again. And Lawrence won’t be a father. Biologically. Unless he thinks, I didn’t sign up for this, and…Oh, I go round and round and round.”

  An unseen kid is kicking a ball against a wall.

  Thump-pow, goes the ball, thump-pow, thump-pow.

  “It’s your body,” says Elf. “Your news. Your timing.”

  Thump-pow, goes the ball, thump-pow, thump-pow.

  “If that’s feminism,” says Imogen, “sign me up.”

  Thump-pow, goes the ball, thump-pow…

  “It’s not feminism. It’s just…true.”

  Thump-pow, thump-pow…

  * * *

  —

  ELF SITS AT the piano in the deserted function room at the Cricketer’s Arms and practices arpeggios. She’s been thinking of Imogen all evening. Her mind needs to do something else for a little while. Outside, it’s raining. The TV newsreader in the residents lounge is just audible, but his words are not. Elf senses a melody is waiting. Sometimes it finds you, like “Waltz for Griff,” but sometimes you track it by the lie of the land, by clues, by scent, almost…Elf draws a stave as a statement of intent. She settles on E flat minor—such a co
ol scale—with her right hand and plays harmonies and disharmonies with her left to see what sparks fly off. Art is unbiddable; all you can do is signal your readiness. Wrong turns, eliminated, reveal the right path. Like love. Elf sips her shandy. Her dad appears. “I’m off to bed. See you later, Beethoven.”

  Elf glances up, “Okay, dad. Sleep tight…”

  “…don’t let the bedbugs bite. Night, love.”

  Elf carries on, linking rightness with the next rightness along. Art is sideways. Art is diagonal. She tries flipping it, playing bass arpeggios with a treble overlay. Art is tricks of the light. Elf transcribes notes on her hand-drawn stave, bar by bar, asking and answering musical questions every four bars. She tries 8/8 time but settles on 12/8: twelve quaver beats per bar. She happens upon a middle section—a glade in a forest, full of bluebells—that she half identifies as, and half creates from, “The Lord Is My Shepherd,” played upside down. She reprises the opening theme at the end. It’s changed by the middle, like innocence changed by experience. She plays with rubato, legato, and dynamics. She runs through the whole thing. It works. A few rough edges, sure, but…Nothing strained. Nothing naff. Nothing staid. No words. No title. No hurry. Not yet. She murmurs, “Bloody hell, you’re good.”

  “ ’Scuse me,” says a man.

  Elf looks up.

  It’s a barman. “I’m closing up for the night.”

  “God, sorry. What’s the time?”

  “Quarter past midnight.”

  * * *

  —

  IN THE MORNING, when Elf and Bea arrive in the restaurant of the Cricketer’s Arms for breakfast, Elf’s dad’s expression tells her something’s happened. She thinks, Imogen—but she’s wrong. Clive Holloway slides his Telegraph across the table, pointing at an article. Elf and Bea read:

  UTOPIA AVENUE IN DIRE STRAITS

  Pop group Utopia Avenue, best known for Top 20 hits “Darkroom” and “Prove It,” were detained on Sunday afternoon by Italian authorities at Rome Airport as they attempted to leave the country. Band manager Levon Frankland is in custody for alleged fiscal evasion and guitarist Dean Moss was arrested after drugs were found on his person. The British Embassy in Rome confirmed that both men have sought consular assistance but declined to comment further. Band lawyer, Ted Silver, issued a statement: “Dean Moss and Levon Frankland are innocent of these defamatory, trumped-up charges, and we look forward to clearing their names at the earliest possible opportunity.”

  “Fff”—Elf turns a Griff-esque profanity into—“ffflaming heck.”

  “That’s a turnup,” says Bea.

  “That could’ve been you.” Her dad speaks quietly, so other guests tucking into their breakfasts don’t hear.

  “No wonder my calls were unanswered,” says Elf.

  “You’ll be leaving the band, I trust?” says her dad.

  “Let’s get the facts first, Dad.”

  “This is the Telegraph, Elf. These are the facts.”

  “What about ‘innocent until proven guilty’?” asks Bea.

  Cutlery clinks. “The National Westminster Bank,” their dad lowers his voice further, “can’t have managers whose families are mixed up with the wrong sort. Drugs? Fiscal evasion?”

  “Only idiots carry drugs through airports, Dad,” replies Elf. “Especially if you’re a guy with a guitar and long hair.”

  “Then maybe Dean is an idiot.” Her dad taps the paper.

  He is in some ways, but not this one. “The British police plant drugs on people. Why wouldn’t Italian police do the same?”

  “The British police force is the envy of the world.”

  Elf feels her temper heat up. “How do you know that? Have you been around the world, asking everyone?”

  “If it was Elf’s name in that article,” says Bea, “as it would be, if she had gone to the airport with the others, whose word would you trust? Hers? Or what the Italian police say?”

  Clive Holloway peers at his daughters over his glasses. “I’d believe Elf—because she’s been raised properly. More’s the pity we can’t say as much for everyone.” He folds up the newspaper as the waitress approaches. “Full English, please. Crispy bacon.”

  * * *

  —

  BETHANY PICKS UP on the second ring and Elf pushes the sixpence into the slot. “Bethany, it’s Elf.”

  “Elf! Thank heaven. Do you know the news?”

  “Only what the Telegraph wrote.”

  “There’s lots more. Where are you calling from?”

  “A kiosk. A hotel in Birmingham.”

  “Give me the number. I’ll call you back…”

  Moments later, the phone rings and Elf picks up. “All ears.”

  “First, the good news. Jasper and Griff are in the clear. They’re holed up at a hotel near the airport. The bad news. Levon and Dean are still in custody. Günther at Ilex has engaged the best Italian lawyers that deutschmarks can buy, however, and promises to call as soon as there’s news.”

  “Where’s Enzo Endrizzi in all this?”

  “Mysteriously AWOL, which smacks of a stitch-up. Press interest is off the scale. Amy Boxer, of all people, has been leading the charge via the Evening Standard.”

  “I dread to ask, but whose side are they all on?”

  “Ours. The Telegraph was a little sniffy, but it’s ‘Get Your Dago Hands Off Our Boy’ from the Mirror, ‘Bent I-Ties Stitch Up British Star!’ from the Post. Ted Silver’s friend at the Foreign Office thinks the authorities in Rome want to be seen to be cracking down on ‘foreign influences.’ They didn’t anticipate this brouhaha. Friends and fans of the band are staging a vigil outside the Italian Embassy in Mayfair. It’s a diplomat’s nightmare.”

  Elf feels gears turn and levers shift. “What do I do?”

  “Keep your head down. I’m drafting a press release. I’ll say you’re safely in England and you’re overwhelmed by the support for Utopia Avenue at this dark hour, et cetera—but if the story keeps growing, hacks might come sniffing.”

  “Oh God. The last thing we need is reporters at the door.”

  “Exactly. How is Imogen?”

  Elf doesn’t know where to begin…

  * * *

  —

  HOT TEARS WELL from Imogen’s sore eyes. Elf hands her a tissue. “He must’ve known. He must’ve wanted his mum. He must’ve been afraid, he must…” Imogen shakes and curls up like a child fitting into a hiding place. “Last night I heard him crying. My milk started up and I woke in the dark and was halfway to the door when I remembered, and my nightshirt was damp so it was out with that bloody breast pump and then when it’s done I have to wash the milk down the sink, and—” Imogen fights for breath, as if her grief has turned to asthma. Elf clasps Imogen’s hands. “Breathe, sis, breathe. Breathe…” Radio 3 is turned on in the kitchen downstairs.

  The curtains are drawn against the sunshine.

  * * *

  —

  AFTER LUNCH, WHICH Imogen doesn’t join, Elf returns to the end of the garden to carry on with the weeding. She and time forget about each other.

  “You’ve missed a bit,” says a voice.

  It’s Lawrence, holding a tray with a teapot.

  “That’s what Immy said yesterday.”

  “Is it? Well, um…Mum’s made gingerbread.”

  “Great. Thanks. I’ll just…” She rips out a cable of bramble, takes off her gloves, and joins Lawrence on the wall. “Is she still asleep?”

  “Yeah. Her safe haven. As long as she doesn’t dream.”

  Elf dunks her gingerbread man, head first. “Mmm. It’s good.”

  “So, the crematorium called. Mark’s service is tomorrow. Four o’clock. There was a cancellation, apparently.”

  “Who cancels at a crematorium?”

  “I…uh, didn’t think to ask.”


  “Ignore me, I’m just being an insensitive idiot.”

  “Your dad told me about Dean and Levon,” says Lawrence. “Stuck in Italy. You must be worried.”

  Elf is worried, but Mark’s death leaves space for nothing else. “They have lawyers. You’re family. My place is here.”

  Lawrence lights a cigarette. “I never knew how death messes with language. Are Immy and I still a ‘family,’ now Mark’s gone? Or…are we demoted back to a ‘couple’? Until…I don’t know.”

  Elf remembers what Imogen told her yesterday. It’s an uncomfortably heavy secret to have to keep. She sips her tea.

  “If I say, ‘Mark is my son,’ ” Lawrence continues, “it looks like I’m denying that Mark’s gone. Like I’m crazy…”

  The unseen kid is kicking a ball against a wall again. Elf guesses this is his or her regular practice time.

  “…but if I say, ‘Mark was my son,’ it’s…” Lawrence steadies himself. “It’s unbearable. It’s too…” He almost laughs at how he’s almost weeping. “Sad. God. Someone needs to invent a verb tense that you only use for the…for people who have…gone.”

  Willow fronds swish and flick around them. Like horses’ tails. “Use ‘is,’ ” says Elf. She thinks of Jasper’s strange detachment. Sometimes it’s a superpower. “If other people think I’m crazy, let them.”

  Thump-pow, thump-pow, thump-pow…

  * * *

  —

  WEDNESDAY MORNING IS bright. The windows in the dining room of the Cricketer’s Arms are open. Warm air seeps in. Elf, Bea, and their father wear black. This morning he has bought the Post. He shows the girls Felix Finch’s column:

  VIGIL ON UTOPIA AVENUE

  Two hundred fans of British popsters Utopia Avenue held a vigil outside the Italian Embassy in Three Kings Yard, Mayfair, yesterday in protest at the detention of the band’s guitarist Dean Moss and manager Levon Frankland in Rome. Italian authorities accuse the pair of possessing drugs and fiscal impropriety, but “Not so!” say band and fans alike, who presented a petition demanding Dean and Levon’s release to an Italian consular official. Songs by the detained musician were sung, with more enthusiasm than technique. Rolling Stone Brian Jones joined the vigil and told Your Humble Finch, “I’ve been at the receiving end of some pretty rough justice myself, and I’m in no doubt that the Italians are playing the same dirty game. If they have real evidence that Dean and Levon have committed crimes, let them press charges. If they don’t, they should let Dean and Levon go—with an apology for wasting everyone’s time.”