Utopia Avenue

by David Mitchell

  Jasper’s nickname was De Jeugd, the Youth. He was Rijksdorp’s youngest resident. The Trappists were a group of manic-depressives who spoke only in occasional short sentences. The Dramatists passed their days with gossip, intrigues, and internecine struggles. The Conspirators fomented delusional theories about the Elders of Zion, Communist bees, and a secret Nazi base in Antarctica. Jasper remained Non-aligned during his residency. Sexual liaisons in the clinic were forbidden in theory and difficult in practice, though not unknown. Two men on Jasper’s floor had sex now and then, but ten years in an English boarding school had accustomed him to furtive gay sex. His own libido was, perhaps conveniently, dimmed by Queludrin.

  Days at Rijksdorp began with a seven A.M. gong, followed by an eight A.M. gong to announce breakfast. Jasper sat at a Non-aligned table and spoke little while he ate his rolls and cheese and drank his coffee. Residents then reported to the pharmacy for their medication in alphabetical order. Jasper’s Z ensured last place. Mornings consisted of treatments appropriate to individual diagnoses: psychotherapy, behavioral therapy, or just “community work” for those willing and able to perform light chores in the kitchen or garden. Afternoons were the patients’ own. Jigsaw puzzles were popular, as were a table-tennis table and bar-football. Some patients memorized poems, songs, or “turns” for the Dramatists’ hotly debated Saturday revue. Grootvader Wim and Dr. Galavazi were initially keen for Jasper to continue with the Bishop’s Ely curriculum, but when he opened the textbooks, he knew that he and school had parted ways forever. An ex–classics teacher from Apeldoorn nicknamed the Professor enlisted Jasper as a chess opponent. He played slow, fierce games. A nun from Venlo ran a Scrabble league. She invented new words and rules to ensure victory, and cast religious curses if challenged.

  Weeks became months. In August Jasper agreed to Dr. Galavazi’s proposal that he venture outside the Rijksdorp grounds. Within a few yards, he felt his pulse elevate and gravity strengthen. His vision swam. He hurried back through the gate, convinced that it wasn’t only Queludrin but also Rijksdorp’s walls that kept Knock Knock at bay. He admitted that this was irrational, but so was an Oriental monk who appeared only in mirrors and sought to drive Jasper insane. Dr. Galavazi, fearful that his young patient was too dependent on Queludrin, reduced his 10 mg dose to 5 mg. After a day, Jasper felt Knock Knock stir. After two, he felt a thud-thud, thud-thud, thud-thud on the wall of his skull. After three, he saw Knock Knock’s dim reflection in a soup spoon. On the fourth day, Jasper’s dosage was returned to 10 mg.

  All through the autumn, Grootvader Wim visited. If “enjoyed” was the wrong word for these visits, Jasper valued the fact that one person, at least, came to see him. Three- or four-word sentences were Jasper’s upper limit, but Wim de Zoet had volunteered in the Great War and was used to men suffering from shellshock. He spoke for both of them, reporting on de Zoet family affairs, news, Domburg, books, and chapters of his own life. Jasper’s father, Guus, visited once. It did not go well. Guus de Zoet, unlike Wim, couldn’t hide his distress at Jasper’s fragility, or his nervy disgust at the more visibly mentally ill patients. Guus’s wife and Jasper’s half-siblings did not visit. Jasper did not mind. The fewer the pitying witnesses to his collapse, the better. Jasper’s only other connection with the world was Heinz Formaggio, who wrote every week from Ely, Geneva, or wherever he happened to be. Some weeks he sent only a scribbled postcard; others it was a ten-page epic. Jasper tried to reply, staring at “Dear Formaggio” for half a day, lost in the infinity of possible first lines until he gave up. The lack of a reply never discouraged Jasper’s former roommate.

  * * *

  —

  IN NOVEMBER, A protégé of Dr. Galavazi’s from the University of Leuven named Claudette Dubois took up an eight-week work placement at Rijksdorp. Her thesis proposed that music might have positive effects on some psychiatric patients, and she was keen to test a few of these ideas. “Come in,” she told Jasper, as he entered the consulting room. “You’re my very first guinea pig.” Various wind, string, and percussion instruments were arranged on a table. With a smile like a misbehaving child, Miss Dubois asked him to choose one. He picked the guitar, a Spanish-built Ramirez. He liked its feel on his thigh. He strummed, and had a sense that his future had just changed. His fingers remembered G, D, A, and F from a couple of guitar lessons he had had after his encounter with Big Bill Broonzy in Domburg. Jasper told Miss Dubois about the encounter. He had not spoken so many sentences for months. He asked to borrow the guitar for the day. She lent him the instrument and a manual by Bert Weedon called Play in a Day.

  Jasper didn’t realize the title wasn’t a literal command, and was angry with himself for having mastered only two-thirds of Bert Weedon’s methodology by the next session. Each of his fingertips required a sticking plaster. Miss Dubois was impressed, but made the ongoing loan of the Ramirez conditional upon Jasper performing at the Saturday revue. Jasper had no choice. When he played, he forgot he was a scared dropout wasting away in a psychiatric facility in the Netherlands. When he played, he was a servant and a lord of Music. On Saturday, he played a simplified “Greensleeves.” In future years, Jasper would experience the live adoration of thousands, yet no applause would ever quite equal what he earned that Saturday from a motley group of schizophrenics, depressives, fantasists, doctors, nurses, kitchen staff, and cleaners. He thought, I want to get better.

  * * *

  —

  WHEN MISS DUBOIS returned to Leuven she entrusted her Ramirez to Jasper, saying she expected further progress by the spring. Shortly before Christmas, Jasper played his grandfather “Yes Sir, That’s My Baby” and Duane Eddy’s “Forty Miles of Bad Road.” Grootvader Wim had missed a couple of visits due to illness and was joyful and shocked at Jasper’s rapid progress. He engaged a Brazilian guitarist married to a Dutchwoman in Den Haag to give Jasper weekly lessons at Rijksdorp. Jasper’s “turns” at the Saturday revue grew in complexity and length. He slipped in a few of his own compositions, describing them, if asked, as “a traditional Argentinian folk song.” For Christmas, Jasper received a Philips record player—with earphones—from “The De Zoet Family,” which meant Grootvader Wim. Miss Dubois gave him Abel Carlevaro’s recordings of Bach and Manuel Ponce. His Brazilian teacher gave him Andrés Segovia’s Master of the Spanish Guitar and Odetta’s Odetta Sings Ballads and Blues. Jasper spent the whole day transcribing Odetta songs, note by chord by line. He didn’t consider himself a singer—but he needed to hum the vocal line, so why not sing the words? Jasper performed Odetta’s “Santy Anno” at the first Saturday revue of 1963 and took an encore. He could have taken two, but his Brazilian teacher warned Jasper that a musician should leave an audience wanting a little more.

  That winter was severe. Canals froze across the Netherlands but the Elfstedentocht race across Friesland was aborted as all but sixty-nine of ten thousand skaters succumbed to hypothermia and frostbite. Jasper worked on mastering guitar exercises by Francisco Tárrega, Jasper’s father visited Rijksdorp before his annual departure for South Africa. Jasper played “I’ve Got It Bad (and That Ain’t Good)” and Tárrega’s “Étude in C.” This time, his father left Rijksdorp later than planned. The following week, the nun from Venlo died in her sleep. Jasper composed “Requiem for the Scrabble Cheat” in her honor. Some residents were moved to tears. Jasper enjoyed the power his music gave him over their emotions.

  Spring brought tulips and a reversal. One April morning Jasper thought he could hear a far-off knock, knock, knock…By evening he was sure. Dr. Galavazi speculated that Jasper was acquiring an immunity to Queludrin. He tried alternative psychotropics but the knocking grew nearer and louder until the doctor agreed to increase Jasper’s Queludrin dosage to 15 mg. Formaggio sent him the complete set of Harry Smith’s Anthology of American Folk Music. Jasper felt an affinity for the blues tunes. With his Brazilian teacher, he mastered Tárrega’s “Recuerdos de la Alhambra.” It was so beautiful that
Jasper could hardly breathe. Buds unfolded. Insects spilled. Woodpeckers hammered. Birdsong drenched the woods around Rijksdorp. Jasper broke down into violent sobs, but couldn’t say why. A trip was organized to nearby tulip fields. Jasper got on the bus, but before they were out of Rijksdorp Wood, he found himself struggling to breathe. The bus had to take him back. Jasper’s first anniversary as a patient came and went. Would there be a second, a third, a tenth?

  The knocking started again. Dr. Galavazi increased the Queludrin dosage to twenty milligrams. “That’s the last time,” he told Jasper. “It’s killing your kidneys.” Jasper felt like a cat on its ninth life.

  One August day, Grootvader Wim appeared with Heinz Formaggio, who was six inches taller, bulkier, and sported a half-beard and a gabardine suit. He was to sail from Rotterdam to New York the following day. An institute in Cambridge, Massachusetts, had awarded him a scholarship. The friends sat beneath the almond tree. Jasper played “Recuerdos de la Alhambra.” Formaggio spoke about their Ely classmates, theater, sailing in Greece, and a new science called cybernetics. Jasper’s news was confined to the routines of a psychiatric hospital. He longed to be free of his battle with a demon or, if Dr. Galavazi was correct, a psychosis posing as a demon. Later, as Grootvader Wim’s car carried Formaggio off to his brilliant future, Jasper understood that death is a door; and asked himself, What does one do with a door?

  * * *

  —

  THE DOOR OPENS onto a hallway swirling with laughter, anecdotes, and the Getz/Gilberto LP turned up loud. Lilies and orchids burst from Grecian urns. A staircase curves toward a modernist chandelier. A man in his forties floats over, radiating a host’s bonhomie. “Dean I know from last month’s papers. Elf’s the girl. Jasper, the hair. Which leaves Griff—and Levon. Who else could you be? Welcome to my Midsummer Ball.”

  “The honor’s ours, Mr. Hershey,” says Levon.

  “It’s Tony,” insists the director. “No standing on ceremony here. My wife said you were in a recording studio when she called. Tell me I’m not your man from Porlock. I’d never forgive myself.”

  “You averted a murder,” says Griff. “Things were turning ugly about a keyboard solo.”

  “Is this the hallway and staircase where you shot the party scene in Cat’s Cradle?” asks Jasper.

  “Well spotted! I’d utterly blown the budget, so this was one less set to build. I say, Tiff? Tiff!” He beckons to a woman with a golden bouffant, a dress of swirling blues and pinks, flared pantaloons, and bare arms. “Look who’s arrived!”

  “Utopia Avenue.” She walks over, smiling. “And Mr. Frankland, I assume.” Jasper guesses she’s fifteen years younger than her husband. “Delighted you could make it—at such short notice.”

  “We wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” says Elf. “Your home’s breathtaking, Tiffany.”

  “Tony’s accountant told us to turn the Battleship Hill money into bricks and mortar or hand it over to the Inland Revenue. It’s perfect for parties but, golly, it’s a nightmare to keep on top of.”

  “Tiffany introduced me to your Paradise LP,” says the director. “This was before that awful Italian business. It’s a sublime record.”

  A compliment, thinks Jasper. “Thanks.” Be agreeable. “We think so too.” Everyone looks at him. I said something off-key.

  “What’s remarkable,” says Tiffany Hershey, “is that my favorite song changes every time we play it.”

  “So what song’s yer favorite right now?” asks Dean.

  “Where do I begin? ‘Unexpectedly’ pulls my heartstrings. ‘Darkroom’ sends shivers down my spine, but if you tied me up and forced me to choose…” she looks at Dean, “…‘Purple Flames.’ ”

  Dean says nothing. Jasper guesses he’s pleased.

  “If it’s not too cheeky, Tiffany,” Elf brings out an autograph book from her handbag, “would you mind ever so?”

  “How awfully sweet,” says Tiffany, taking the pen. “It’s been simply ages since I signed anything. Except checks.”

  “My mum took my sisters and me to see Thistledown at the Richmond Odeon. Afterward my sister Bea announced, ‘I’m going to be an actress.’ Now she’s in her first year at RADA.”

  “Oh, my golly!” says Tiffany Hershey. “What a story!”

  “See, Tiff?” says Hershey. “Your fans haven’t gone anywhere.”

  Tiffany Hershey writes: “To Bea Holloway, my sister in drama, Tiffany Seabrook.” “Thank you,” says Elf. “She’ll have this framed.”

  “What’s your new film about, Tony?” asks Jasper.

  “It’s what Hollywood calls ‘a road movie.’ A London pop star is told he has only a month to live and hitches to the Isle of Skye to address unfinished business. He’s accompanied by the ghost of his dead sister, Piper. Adventures and epiphanies along the way guaranteed. Emotional climax. Twist in the tail. The End—until the Oscars flood in.”

  “Who’s playing the star,” asks Levon, “if it’s not an impertinent question?”

  “It’s a moot and pressing question. Should I go for an Albert Finney or a Patrick McGoohan? Or for a bona fide singer who’s actually, you know, lived through it?”

  “Cast the Real McCoy,” says Dean. “Every time. I’ll do it. I’ve got bags o’ free time over the next few months, right, Levon?”

  He looks and sounds as if he means it, but Jasper guesses from everyone else’s smile that he was joking, and that it’s not a serious offer. Jasper acts a smile. “Do you have a title?”

  “The Narrow Road to the Deep North,” says Tiffany.

  “That’s jolly evocative,” says Elf. “I love it.”

  “The title’s from Bashō,” says Jasper. “The Japanese poet.”

  “Someone’s an omnivorous reader,” says Tiffany.

  “I had lots of time to read when I was young.”

  “Before you joined the Old Farts’ Club, you mean?” The director says it half smiling, but Jasper doesn’t get the joke.

  “Tiffany will be making her acting comeback as Piper.” Hershey sips his Pimm’s. “After four years away.”

  “Five,” says Tiffany Hershey. “Six, by the time it’s out. Your song, Jasper, ‘The Prize’ ”—Tiffany turns to Jasper—“reminds me of ‘Tomorrow Never Knows.’ How conscious was that?”

  “Not very,” says Jasper. A pause. Do they want more?

  “John’s here, you know,” says Anthony Hershey.

  “No fookin’ way!” says Griff. “Lennon? Here? At this party?”

  “In the living room, I believe,” said the host. “By the punchbowl. Tiffany, would you make the introductions? I was on a quest to find some green olives for Roger Moore…”

  * * *

  —

  “THREE FACTS.” THE man by the punchbowl is not John Lennon, but an older man with bad teeth, a shark’s-tooth necklace, and evangelical eyes. Tiffany and the others move off, but Jasper likes facts. “Fact one: UFOs from other stars visited Earth during the Neolithic era. Fact two: ley lines were their navigation aids. Fact three: where ley lines converge, we have a landing site. Stonehenge was the Heathrow Airport of pre-Roman England.”

  “A real archeologist might point out,” says an Australian woman, “that a fact is only a fact if it’s derived from proof.”

  “How lucky we are,” says the ufologist, “that the anarchists can spare Aphra Booth for the day. The Ivory Tower Brigade did indeed bleat at my book and I gave them the response I now offer Miss Booth. ‘My book contains six hundred pages of proof: piss off and read the damn thing!’ ” He pauses to enjoy the laughter. “Did they take my advice? Of course not. Academics are thought-policed from cradle to grave. During my lost years at Oxford, I attended their conferences. I had but one question: How did human societies as far-flung as the Nile Valley, China, the Americas, Athens, Atlantis, India, et al., invent metallurgy, agr
iculture, law, and mathematics within decades of one another? Their answer?” The ufologist mimed someone with Parkinson’s looking up a word. “ ‘Oh, let me check my textbook…’ ” He mimes turning a page. “ ‘Ah, yes, here it is…Coincidence!’ Coincidence. The last refuge of the bankrupt intellectual.”

  “If the skies over Stonehenge once swarmed with little green men,” asks Aphra the Australian, “where are they now?”

  “They fled in disgust.” The ufologist’s smirk fades. “The Visitors gave us the wisdom of the stars. We used it for warfare, slavery, religion, and trousers for women. And yet, and yet. Our myths, legends, and literature are replete with entities from other planes of being. Angels and spirits, Bodhisattvas and fairies. Voices in the head. My hypothesis unifies these phenomena: These beings are extraterrestrial in origin. For millennia they’ve visited us, to see if Homo sapiens is ready for the Final Revelation. The answer has always been ‘Not yet.’ But that ‘Not yet’ is turning into ‘Very soon.’ UFO sightings are multiplying. Psychedelics are guiding us to higher states. Soon, extraterrestrials will initiate a sea change. Or, as I call it in my book, a ‘star change.’ ”