Utopia Avenue : A Novel

by Mitchell, David

  … and a metallic shriek fills Jasper’s head. He wakes in Trix’s bed to the sound of a tram’s steel wheels. His heart thuds. He’s flooded with relief that he’s not in that doorless ossuary any more. Once the tram has passed, the only sounds are Trix’s breathing, the sigh of rain on Amsterdam’s roofs and canals, the distant boiler of 81 Grafgraversgracht, and night ebbing away. It’s hard to know one from the other.

  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?’ asked 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 shake-down?’

  ‘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 foetal 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 aeroplane.’

  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 aeroplane 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 upwards, the horizon tilted down, the aeroplane lifted, Elf muttered, ‘Oh my God oh my God oh my God …’ Below, depots, a multi-storey 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, rumpled 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 t
his. 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 head-shake means, ‘“Amico”? Really?’

  ‘That money in your bag,’ Griff asks Levon. ‘It is legit?’

  ‘Entirely,’ says Levon. ‘But it’s not in my bag any more.’

  ‘Wasn’t carrying it all in cash a bit risky?’ asks Griff.

  ‘If you think carrying cash is risky,’ Levon retorts, ‘try accepting a cheque from a foreign promoter you’ve never worked with. Watch it get magically cancelled 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 theatre shows. The captain gets a juicy slice. Everything’s hunkydory. 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.’

  Nobody speaks for a minute or so. ‘Thank God Elf took the early flight,’ says Dean. ‘Thank God for that.’

  ‘You’re not wrong,’ says Griff.

  The police van thumps over a pothole.

  ‘Money’s only money,’ says Jasper. ‘We’ll make more.’

  ‘Could Ted Silver the two thousand back?’ asks Griff.

  ‘This is Italy,’ states Levon. ‘Our case might get to court by nineteen seventy-five, if we’re lucky. Seriously. No, the best scenario is a swift deportation.’

  ‘What’s the worst scenario?’ asks Dean.

  ‘Let’s not think about it, but unless someone from your embassy is telling you it’s safe, sign nothing. Remember. The Italians invented police corruption.’

  The four step out of the van, blinking and dazzled, in the walled yard of a police station. It’s an ugly one-storey building with a flat roof. Dean stumbles. Griff steadies him. Beyond the barbed-wire-topped wall they see a motorway bridge, a factory chimney, and a housing block. A guard shoos them inside. Every last person in the waiting area, from ten-year-olds to priests to pregnant women to the desk sergeant is puffing on a cigarette. Conversation ceases and heads turn to look at the exotic foreigners. The party is led through a blast-proof door into a processing room. Captain Ferlinghetti awaits. ‘Allora, you like my hotel?’

  ‘It’s a shit-hole,’ says Dean, fake-amiably. ‘D’yer know that word? “Shit-hole”? Full of shits. Like you lot.’

  ‘Cool it, Dean,’ mutters Levon. ‘Just cool it.’

  ‘You all is held for violations of currency, and you –’ he smirks at Dean ‘– for assaulting police officers.’

  ‘Piss off. You assaulted me.’

  ‘Who believe a criminal, thief, liar? Empty pockets here.’ He indicates four shallow wooden boxes on the counter.

  ‘You’ve already stolen two thousand dollars off us,’ says Griff. ‘How do we know we’ll ever see our stuff again?’

  ‘No. You steal from the people of Italy.’

  ‘Captain Ferlinghetti,’ says Levon, ‘please call Enzo Endrizzi. He’ll explain the misunderstanding.’

  Ferlinghetti displays a weakness for gloating. ‘Who is “Enzo Endrizzi”?’ His grin says, I’m lying and I don’t give a shit that you know I’m lying – which means, Dean guesses, that their promoter set them up. Levon, Griff and Jasper, meanwhile, have emptied their pockets as instructed. Dean asks, ‘How’m I s’posed to empty my bloody pockets with my hands tied, Captain Genius?’

  ‘Is true. So, I empty the pockets.’ The captain comes around to Dean’s side of the counter via a liftable flap.

  ‘Yer could just take the cuffs off,’ points out Dean.

  Ferlinghetti turns Dean’s jacket pocket out over the tray. A few coins rattle out – and a misshapen lump wrapped in tinfoil.

  What the bloody hell’s that? ‘That ain’t mine.’

  ‘Is from your pocket. I see it fall. My sergeant see, also.’

  The desk sergeant juts out his lower lip. ‘Sì.’

  Ferlinghetti unwraps the tinfoil. Inside it is a lump of hash. The chief’s eyes widen like a bad actor’s. ‘Cannabis? I hope is not.’

  Now Dean’s worried. ‘Yer put it there yerself!’

  Ferlinghetti sniffs the lump. ‘Smell like cannabis.’ He scrapes it with his thumbnail and dabs his tongue. ‘Taste like cannabis.’ He shakes his head. ‘Is cannabis. Is bad. Very bad.’

  ‘We demand a lawyer,’ states Levon, ‘and consular access to the British and Canadian embassies. Immediately.’

  Ferlinghetti’s scoffs, ‘Pfff. Is Italia. Is Sunday.’

  ‘Telephones, lawyers, ambassadors. We know our rights.’

  The captain leans over the counter. ‘Here is not London, is Roma. I decide “rights”. I say –’ he flicks Levon’s nose ‘– no.’

  Levon jerks his head back at the oddness of the attack. The deputy starts to prod Dean down a corridor.

  ‘Oy!’ Dean realises that there may be worse things in store than indignity. ‘Where’re yer taking me?’

  ‘Private suite,’ the captain tells him. ‘in the Hotel Shit-hole.’

  ‘Sign nothing, Dean,’ Levon yells after him. ‘Nothing.’

  The Italian promoter was not waiting for the band at Arrivals, so Levon went off to find a telephone kiosk to call the Endrizzi office. Dean’s first impression of Italians was that they smiled more often and more brightly than the British. Their hair was better, their clothes more stylish, and they spoke with hands, arms and eyes as well as words. He watched two big macho guys greet each other with a peck-kiss, peck-kiss on either cheek. ‘On the bright side,’ Griff muttered, in a voice too low for Elf to hear, ‘if Italian men are mostly gay, it leaves the field wide open, like.’

  Dean’s pores inhaled the warm air. ‘I love it here.’

  ‘We haven’t even left the airport yet,’ said Elf.

  ‘The one, the only – Utopia Avenue!’ A man approached with open arms, with a silver tooth, a cream shirt and a booming voice that needed turning down from ten to three or four. ‘I am’ – he put his hand over his heart – ‘Enzo Endrizzi, your promoter, admirer, friend. And you’ – he chose Jasper first – ‘are Jasper de Zoet, il maestro.’

  ‘Mr Endrizzi.’ He offered a hand.

  The promoter clasped it in both of his. ‘Enzo, always.’ He turns to Dean. ‘Dean Moss, il cronometro.’

  Il what? ‘Cheers for bringing us over, Enzo.’

  ‘Is your fans who bring! They write, they telefono me, they crazy for “Purples Flames”! You write this song, Dean, yes?’

  Dean swells a little. ‘As it happens, yeah, that’s one o’ mine.’

  ‘A song stu-pen-doso. We make gigs, do interviste, and next week we go up, up, up to number one in Italia. And you, Elf ’Olloway, la sirenessa.’ He raised Elf’s hand to his lips.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Mr Endrizzi. Enzo.’

  ‘You break ten thousand hearts this week, in Torino, Napoli, Milano, Roma.’ He turned to Griff. ‘So you are … not Levon? No no. You is “Greef Greefin” because you do a lot of
“grief” for me, is right?’ Enzo made a pistol of his hands and cackled. ‘“Stand and deliver! Your money and your life!”, eh?’

  ‘Levon will be back any minute,’ said Elf. ‘He went to phone you. There was a little confusion over the arrival time.’

  Enzo sighed. ‘For Anglo-Saxons, time is a master. For Mediterraneans, time is a servant.’

  Enzo’s Fiat minibus thumped along the Italian highway at twice the top speed of the Beast. Driving was a big silent bruiser whom Enzo introduced as ‘Santino, my right-hand man and left-hand man’. The highway cut through hills of beige and heat-proof green. Suburbs emerged from bombsite rubble. Cranes reached halfway to heaven. Tall dark trees corkscrewed upwards. Traffic swerved, lawlessly. People honked horns instead of signalling, and traffic lights appeared to be ornamental. Jasper retained his sickly pallor from the flight. ‘Were you born in Rome, Enzo?’ Elf asked.

  ‘Cut my arm, the Tiber River flows out.’

  ‘Where d’yer learn yer English?’ asked Dean.

  ‘From GIs, from Tommies, in Rome, in the war.’

  ‘Weren’t kids evacuated to the countryside?’ asked Elf.

  ‘No place is safe. All Italia a battlefield. Certo, Roma was magnet of bombs, but so is other cities, and if you at wrong time, wrong place, boom! In July in 1943, biiiiiig raid destroyed San Lorenzo. Royal Air Force. Three thousand dead. My parents also.’

  ‘That’s horrible,’ said Elf.