Utopia Avenue : A Novel

by Mitchell, David

  ‘What do I need to know about you?’ asks the duchess.

  That I prefer men, thinks Levon. ‘I’m not a true mogul.’

  ‘But you do choose the stars of tomorrow, as it were?’

  ‘Only in the sense that punters in a betting shop “choose” the winner of the two-fifteen at Aintree. I only have one major act signed. Well, “major” in a “still minor” way. Well, “potentially major”. So you see. No mogul.’

  ‘If you have designs on Levon’s lolly,’ Jerome tells the duchess, ‘think again. Has anyone here even heard of Utopia Street?’

  ‘Avenue.’ Levon twigs too late that Jerome got it wrong on purpose. Fuck-face.

  ‘I’ll wager more people know Levon’s pop group than ever heard of you, Jerome Blissett, master spy, professorial parasite and part-time paint tormentor.’

  Jerome smiles at Francis’s little witticism. Francis does not. Levon knows the man is butchered on the inside.

  The duchess whispers to Levon, ‘You cut your lip. Oyster shell. That must have been me.’

  ‘It’s nothing.’ Levon dabs his lip with his napkin and is unduly entranced by the way the linen drinks up his blood. Osmosis.

  ‘How are your new paintings coming along for the new exhibition, Francis?’ asks a Dickensian caricature.

  ‘Modern slavery. Valerie from the Gallery wants another six by the end of … some month. I don’t recall. It’s soon.’

  George Orwell’s widow asks, ‘Are you satisfied with what you have so far?’

  ‘No artist is ever satisfied with his work,’ replies Francis. ‘Except Henry Moore.’

  Jerome swallows an oyster. ‘I met Salvador and Gala Dalí in Paris last month. He’s putting together a new show, too.’

  ‘Fancy. The Great Masturbator is doing art, now?’

  ‘I saw the Jackson Pollock retrospective at the New York Met,’ says the Duchess of Somewhere. ‘Do you rate him?’

  ‘I rate him most highly,’ says Francis. ‘As a lacemaker.’

  It’s Battle Royale, thinks Levon. He’s assassinating rivals, one put-down at a time. A sole meunière appears with a pillow of string beans. It smells of butter, pepper and the sea.

  Several glasses of Château Latour later, the door of the Gents at Harkaway’s veers this way and that. Levon commands it to stay still. Sulkily, it obeys. Levon’s deflating his bladder at the urinal. Urinal. The capital U: U for U-bend. A familiar figure shambles across the periphery of his vision. A cubicle door is bolted. The tiles in front of Levon are off-white and ink-blue. He thinks of the Delftware on his mother’s dresser at the reverend’s rectory in Kleinburg, Toronto. Of the band plus me, thinks Levon, only Griff and Elf have sane relationships with their fathers. A few seconds pass. A few more seconds pass. A few more seconds pass. Levon buttons his fly and goes to wash his hands. ‘Look at you, swanning around casinos and nightspots with a famous sugar-daddy.’ It’s Jerome, his face in the mirror. ‘Just remember this: I’ve known him for years. I’m an artist. You’re a bean-counter. You’re a tick. Piss off or I’ll contact my KGB handler and have you vanished. The police would never even find your body.’

  The scarier Jerome tries to be, the more pitiful he becomes.

  Jerome misreads Levon’s silence as proof of successful intimidation. ‘Your plan’ll never work.’

  Levon is curious. ‘Plan?’

  ‘You’re hardly the first, darling. Swap your arse-crack for a few Francis Bacon originals, flog ’em for a life of Riley.’

  Levon dries his hands, bins the towel and turns around to face his adversary. ‘First, my arse-crack is not for sale, and—’

  ‘Oh, you think the cock-struck dotard’s invited you along for the quality of your conversation?’

  ‘Second, why would he give art to a stranger? He’s no fool. And third—’

  ‘George milked him for thousands, and now George’s family’s blackmailing the idiot.’

  ‘You really should’ve listened to my “third”.’

  ‘I am agog.’

  A toilet flushes. An artist emerges from the cubicle.

  ‘Francis!’ half shrieks Jerome. ‘We were …’

  ‘Tell your comrades in Moscow,’ says Francis, “Let me in, it’s all over, nobody in London will even spit on me now”.’

  Jerome forces his mouth to smile. ‘You and I are too grown-up to bicker over a silly misunderstanding.’

  ‘If you’re still here when I finish washing my hands,’ Francis goes to the basin, ‘I’ll have the manager send you the bill.’

  A cave-black passageway off Dufours Place swallows them. A twist and a turn later, Levon and Francis emerge in a tiny courtyard with grated windows and ruckled paving. A neon sign stamps two words on the bricked-in dark: ‘LAZARUS DIVES’.

  A statement, a promise or a warning?

  The door opens at Francis’s approach and closes behind them. Inside is dim and reddish. A voice says, ‘Welcome back, sir.’ Francis mumbles something. ‘Of course, sir, if you vouch for him,’ and then, ‘Extremely generous of you, sir.’ Steps lead down to an arched cellar vibrant with Jimmy Smith’s molten Hammond and Stanley Turrentine’s volcanic sax. Levon can’t determine the size of the club, if that’s the right word. Discreet booths with tables and benches are arranged around a dance-floor of flagstones. It may have been a crypt, once upon a time. Most of Lazarus Dives’ clientele is male, though a few women are dancing amid the queerness as if none of this is a big deal. Men flirt at the bar, hold hands, touch. Several eye up Levon. Which is flattering, because Levon’s still dressed for a Bill Evans gig, not for a Soho club where men meet men. No, idiot, it’s because you’re with Francis fricking Bacon. The last face is dangerously handsome. Thick black curly hair, darkish skin, chest visible to his solar plexus, like a satyr from Greek mythology. Levon thinks, I’m going to know you very well, then dismisses the idea. ‘It’s Bloody Mary o’clock.’

  ‘A Bloody Mary would be perfect. How did you know?’

  ‘A proper night out is both bomb-making and bomb-disposal. Two Bloody Marys, if you’d be so kind …’ A giant barman nods. A hairless mod and a bearded hippie are locked in a yearning kiss.

  ‘I’ve never heard of this place,’ says Levon.

  ‘All tastes are catered for.’ The artist’s face is inches away.

  Levon stares back at a man twice his age.

  Francis plants a strange, slow, pouted kiss on Levon’s lips. Their eyes stay open. Lust is absent. It’s a ritual. Francis pulls back and massages the muscles and fascia of Levon’s face: not gently, not painfully. ‘Our persecutors maintain that’ – Francis sighs the word, regretfully – ‘“homosexuals” violate Nature’s law. A decrepit falsehood. Nature’s law is oblivion. Youth and vigour are fleeting aberrations. This truth is the canvas on which I paint.’

  A boy with a face like a girl or a girl with a face like a boy slides open a Swan Vesta matchbox. Inside are two white pills. Francis puts one in his mouth and swallows it. Levon looks at the other. Asking ‘What is it?’ is not an option. Acid, aspirin, vitamin C, a placebo, cyanide … it could be anything.

  Levon swallows it. Francis tells him, ‘Good boy.’

  A bassist, a drummer and a keyboardist set up an oscillating drone, heavy with reverb. The drone seduces even non-dancers like Levon into dancing. A man in a nightshirt and face-paint is spinning plates on poles. He’s up to thirteen. One for each guest at the Last Supper, thinks the reverend’s son. It’s like the UFO Club was before the tourists flooded it. A skinny man in sunglasses joins the band and lays tenor sax lines over the drone. They stab, slalom, wheel and ululate. Less commercial than Stockhausen, but they’re perfect for Lazarus. The Satyr, incredibly, is orbiting Levon, or vice versa. He could have any guy in the place. His lips are full and serious. His eyes inspire vertigo. I could fall inside them and never reach the end. His skin is bathed in dark red light and beaded with sweat. The pill is sharpening Levon’s senses like speed and giving him a Mandrax glow. No hallucinations,
he thinks gratefully, unless this place is one, or this evening, or the whole of my life. The Satyr leads Levon off the dance floor. His palms are scaly with calluses: clearly the Satyr works with his hands. They pass through another door, into a small room furnished for assignations with a single bed, clean sheets, a chair, some cords. It’s as warm as a body. A red lamp glows like embers. The nameless band’s bass throbs. The Satyr pours Levon a glass of water from a jug. It’s cool and fresh. The Satyr drinks from the same glass. He holds an apple to Levon’s lips. It’s tart and lemony. The Satyr bites the same apple.

  They talk, a little, in the naked darkness. Both are cautious about giving details away. Up those magic stairs awaits a harsh reality and we can’t be too careful. The Satyr is a native Dubliner called Colm. He calls himself ‘Black Irish’ – a descendant of Spanish sailors from the shipwrecked Armada fleet, ‘Though that’s a yarn used to cover a multitude of sins.’ Levon says he’s in music publishing. Colm says, ‘I’m a sparky’ – adding, ‘electrician’ when he sees Levon doesn’t know the word. Colm asks if it’s true ‘yer old tubby uncle feller’ is one of the greatest painters of the century. Levon says, ‘The greatest, to my mind.’ Colm asks if Levon’s ‘with him’. Levon says no, he’s just along for the ride. Levon takes a biro from his jacket and writes his number on Colm’s left palm. ‘You can wash me away or you can call me.’ There’s a tattoo of a cross over Colm’s heart. Very gently, Levon sucks it. Afterwards, Colm asks Levon if Levon’s his real name: Levon says yes, it is – what about Colm? He says yes, it is. When Levon wakes, the Satyr is gone. Methodically, Levon checks that his wallet, watch and pen are still in his jacket and trousers. Everything is in its right place.

  Pictures of the Nativity, in crayon. Snowmen. Eyes on upside-down chins. Fairy cakes. Jokes about Newfies and Nova Scotians. Goals in junior ice hockey. Book reports. A cake rack. Prayers to God to make him normal. Crusty tissues. A bonfire of love poems to Wes Bannister. Shovelled paths through snow. Camping trips with the Baptist Boys Adventurers. Fumbles with Kenton Lester in a tent in the Adirondack Park. ‘That Game’, Kenton called it. ‘Wanna play That Game?’ Kenton’s face twisted with pleasure. Shooting stars. Later, furious denials. Outrage! Promises to himself to be more careful. Promises, when Kenton’s family moved to Vancouver. Sticky fantasies. Essays. Exams. His bed in a room at the University of Toronto. Friends. Talk of Freud, Marx, Northrop Frye. Trips to see foreign films. Roll-ups. Poetry. Visits to folk-clubs. ‘That Game’ with a married judge, on the sixteenth floor of the Inn on the Park, one Saturday. Another Saturday. Another. Scandal. His father, shouting. His mother, sobbing. A meeting about an electrotherapy clinic. A decision. A six-hour bus journey to New York. Decorations for his tiny room in Brooklyn. Poetry. A job in the post room of a Wall Street brokerage. Enough money to buy a guitar. Songs. Trips to Greenwich Village. Advice from Dave Van Ronk: ‘Kid, we’re all put on this Earth for a reason, but molesting that guitar, it ain’t yours.’ Sex with boys of a dozen races, creeds and sizes. Yes, sizes. A job at a record shop on 29th and 3rd. A desk with the Mayhew-Reeves agency. The Beatles at Shea Stadium. Their manager, Brian Epstein, he’s one of us … A poky office at the Broadway West Agency. A passport application. London! Trips with artists to Paris, to Madrid, to Bonn. Repair-jobs on fragile egos. Letters to his mother and his sisters. His third, fourth, fifth Christmas out of Canada. A letter from his elder sister: ‘Dearest Lev, this is ridiculous, you’re my brother …’ Photographs. A partial, secret family reunion at Niagara Falls. An office at Pye. A stint at managing the Great Apes. A top-floor flat in Queens Gardens. Cordial relations with A&R men. A handshake with Howie Stoker and Freddy Duke. A call to Bethany Drew. Plans. A trip to see Jasper de Zoet play in Archie Kinnock’s group. A trip to 2i’s with Dean Moss. Utopia Avenue, or three-quarters of. Elf Holloway. Take-off! Small tours. A deal with Victor French at Ilex. ‘Darkroom’. The album. More dates for the new year. A trip to Hull. Cancellations. Apologies.

  What we make, we are.

  Levon is waking up …

  Chilly light seeps in. Levon is lying on a battered sofa in a messy sitting room. Books. Bottles. Bowls. Objets. A mirror, cracked into a jagged flower of shards. He has no idea where he is. He remembers Colm – but remembers Colm had left. Levon sits up. Delicately. Sash windows, overlooking a London mews, much like Jasper’s but with higher sides. A soggy winter sky, like sodden toilet paper. Levon is fully clothed. He needs a bath. His keys and wallet are on the corner of the coffee-table. The smell of cigarettes and beef dripping. The door opens and Francis Bacon peers in wearing a smoking jacket over pyjamas. He has a black eye and his lip is cut. ‘Ah, you’re alive. That simplifies matters.’

  ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘Nothing happened to me.’

  ‘But your face! Somebody beat the crap—’

  With casual finality: ‘You’re mistaken.’

  Levon remembers Lazarus Dives: All tastes catered for.

  ‘Hair of the dog.’ Francis hands him a tomato juice.

  Levon sniffs it. ‘A Bloody Mary?’

  ‘Don’t argue with Nurse.’

  Levon sips the red gloop and feels better. ‘It’s good.’

  ‘I’ve given a little thought to your predicament.’

  ‘My predicament?’

  ‘Your drummer, the band, doubt, failure, et cetera.’

  ‘I told you all that?’

  ‘In the taxi, you spilled your guts, so to speak.’

  Now he mentions it, thinks Levon, I think I did …

  Francis Bacon lights a cigarette and tops up his Bloody Mary with a generous glug of vodka. ‘Levon, I don’t know you from Adam. We may meet again, or we may not. London’s a metropolis and a village. You’re not an artist per se but you enable the artists who make the art. What you are is an enabler. An assembler. A builder. This is a calling. You don’t get the glory. You don’t get remembered. But you don’t get devoured. And you do get the money. If that’s not good enough, go and play golf.’ A mouse watches from behind a jar of turpentine on a shelf by Francis’s shoulder. ‘If this drummer boy of yours emerges from his Nighttime of the Soul, good. If he doesn’t, get another. In any event, stop feeling so fucking sorry for yourself, and get back to work.’ The artist downs his Bloody Mary. ‘Now, I’m going up to my studio to follow my own advice. When you leave pull the front door shut. It needs a good, hard slam.’

  If January was a place, it would be Kensington Gardens this morning. The trees are bare and dark. The flowerbeds are flowerless. It may be Sunday, but there’s no sun to be seen or felt. The sky is somehow not quite there. Gulls, geese and ducks on the Round Pond honk and bellow. It’s cold. Nobody lingers for long. Nobody lingers at all. Levon’s glad of the scarf he stole from Francis Bacon’s coat-stand. He’ll return it if his conscience insists, but he doubts it will. The shops around Paddington are mostly shut. Few cars are about. No kids are playing in Queens Gardens. He climbs up to his flat, starts a bath running, cleans his teeth, makes a pot of tea and brings it into the bathroom on a tray. He retrieves his notebook from its drawer, sinks into the hot soapy water and reads the four verses he wrote on the train from Hull. I need a final verse. Levon knows it’s on its way. A new verse, to flip the whole poem on its head. He wonders if Colm has scrubbed his biroed number off his palm, or if the telephone might ring today.

  Maybe in the next few minutes.

  Maybe in the next few seconds.

  Prove It

  Aglow in the stage-lights of McGoo’s, eight women rest their pints of bitter on the stage. Four are in tears. Two are mouthing the words, prayerfully. Gotcha! thinks Elf. Until two Thursdays ago, Utopia Avenue was thought of as a male acid-flecked R&B band with a novelty girl. Elf suspected that most of the women at their gigs were girlfriends in tow. Since she mimed singing ‘Mona Lisa Sings The Blues’ for the ten million viewers of The London Palladium Show, however, things have changed. McGoo’s is a Jack-the-laddish venue in Edinburgh – Steve Marriott and th
e Small Faces are here next weekend – but nearly half of the house tonight is female. As Elf hits the high E of the final chorus and Jasper, Dean and Griff fall quiet, her vocal is accompanied by, surely, a two-hundred-strong female choir blasting at top volume. I couldn’t sing off-key if I tried, she thinks, and doubles the usual length of her final ‘Bluuuuuu-uuuuuues …’ Screw it, she thinks, I’ll go another four bars … Dean gives her a my-my-my smile. Jasper extends his falling note and Griff sits out the extra beats before playing the cymbal crescendo. The band is only two songs into a twelve-song set and he’s on industrial painkillers but he’s doing well. The sound of his gong is buried under cheers, stomps and applause. ‘Thank you,’ says Elf into the mic, looking at the eight women up front. One, the Queen of the Picts with wild black hair and arms like cables, makes a megaphone of her hands: ‘We came althaway fro’ Glasgee f’ thassong, Elf, an’ ye fookin’ nailed it!’

  Elf mouths, ‘Thank you,’ at her and leans into her mic. ‘Thanks, everyone. I wish we’d come here months ago.’

  More applause, and blurred shouts, calls and whistles.

  ‘Holy God, I’ve missed this,’ continues Elf. ‘There were times in the last couple of months when the future didn’t look so great …’

  The Pictish Queen calls out, ‘We know what ye’ve been through right enough, Elf!’

  ‘… but Edinburgh and Glasgow, you’ve brought us back and—’ People shout, ‘Perth!’ and ‘Dundee!’ and ‘Aberdeen!’ and ‘Tober-fookin’-mory!’ and Elf laughs. ‘Okay, okay – Scotland, you’ve blown away the darkness. So, our next song is …’ Elf looks for her set-list. ‘My set-list just combusted. Dean? What’s next?’

  Dean calls over, ‘How ’bout yer new one?’

  Elf hesitates. She’s pretty sure ‘Smithereens’ was the third song, and Dean isn’t one to give up the spotlight. ‘“Prove It”?’

  Dean speaks into his mic. ‘Scotland, help us out. Elf’s written a new song and it’s bloody great. D’yer want to hear it or what?’