‘Is twenty-four years ago. Many water under bridge.’
‘London had the shit bombed out of it too,’ said Dean.
Enzo flashed his silver tooth. ‘By Italian Air Force?’
‘Mussolini was on Hitler’s side, right?’
‘Certo – Mussolini’s men killed my uncles and cousins, who was partisans in the north. A movie, a story, is simple: good contro bad. Reality is –’ his fingers waggled and interwove ‘– così.’
Dean wondered if European history might be more complicated than in the war films he’d seen growing up.
‘Disaster is the mother of opportunity,’ said Enzo. ‘GIs arrive, they give Marvel comics, I learn English, they had dollars, I get things they need, I take commission, I eat that night. Black-market people, they help me, I help them. Is Italian way. To be young was protection. If military police catch a man, they shoot. If they catch a boy, usually no. Was my university of the life. I learned to ’uss-ssel.’
‘What was that, Enzo?’ asked Griff.
Dean worked it out. ‘“Hustle”?’
‘Exactly. ’Uss-ssel. Is a skill I use still, as promoter.’
The Fiat was cut up by a school bus. Santino beeped his horn, leaned out of his window and yelled, never mind that at the speed they were travelling his words couldn’t possibly reach the offending driver. Kids leaned out of the bus windows and made a stabbing hand-gesture at Santino, with the index and little fingers pointing straight, like a pair of horns. ‘What’s that about?’ asked Dean.
‘Is cornuto. Horns of man of wife who go with other man.’
‘A cuckold,’ said Elf. ‘Folk songs are full of them.’
A farmhouse flew by. A shallow-angled roof, narrow windows, biscuit-coloured stone walls. Sloping fields were cultivated with rows of what looked to Dean like Kentish hops.
‘Is a vineyard,’ said Enzo. ‘Grapes, for the wine.’
Dean wondered who he’d be if he’d been born in that house and not in Peacock Road, Gravesend. He wondered if identity is drawn not in indelible ink, but by a light 5H pencil.
The gridded high window is no more than a foot wide and six inches in height. A head might fit through but never the body. A blade of dusty sunlight falls on the rusty bed frame and crusty mattress. A shit-spattered porcelain hole in the corner exhales evil vapours. The floor is clammy concrete. The graffitied walls are blotched with mould. The steel door has an eye-slot and a floor-level hatch. Nowhere to sit but the mattress. Now what? He hears the muffled din of the motorway, scraps of distant Italian, and the drip, drip, drip of a cistern.
Hopefully Ferlinghetti only wants to scare us into forgetting the two thousand dollars.
Dean has no idea about drugs penalties in Italy. The Rolling Stones had their drugs charges overturned recently. But they’re the Stones, and that was England.
Minutes creep by. Dean’s indignation is cooling. The beating he took is starting to hurt. He wonders how Elf’s doing, and how Imogen’s holding up. The death of an infant puts his predicament in perspective. Levon, Jasper and Griff know he’s here. He wasn’t abducted without witnesses. He’s British. Italy’s not Russia or China or Africa where they could take me round the back and put a bullet in my head. Dean’s trial – if it comes to that – would be a drawn-out, costly headache. Why bother when they can just deport him? Last, Dean is not a nobody. He’s a somebody with a song in the Italian Top Five. Last night Utopia Avenue filled a two-thousand seater in Rome …
‘Two thousand people!’ Griff half shouted into Dean’s ear over the din in the wings of the Mercurio Theatre. ‘From Archie Kinnock to this in fourteen months! Am I fookin’ dreaming?’ Sweat-drenched, Dean squeezed Griff’s shoulder as he drank. Dean was hoarse, wrecked, jubilant and temporarily indestructible. This last round of roars and whistles was for the band, but also for Dean’s new song ‘The Hook’, a work in progress. The Mercurio Theatre liked it just as much as ‘Darkroom’ and ‘Mona Lisa’. The applause settled into a marching giant’s clap, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap …
Levon appeared. ‘A third encore? They want it.’
Elf glugged from her water flask. ‘I’m game.’
‘I never turn down two thousand Romans,’ said Griff.
‘Seems rude to say no,’ agreed Dean. ‘Jasper?’
‘Sure.’
Enzo appeared, smiling like a promoter on the last night of an amply profitable tour. ‘Friends, you is all fantaaaaaastici!’
‘So’s this crowd,’ said Dean. ‘They’re mental.’
‘In England, you …’ Enzo mimed zipping his lips. ‘In Italia …’ he posed operatically ‘… we show! This noise is noise of love.’
‘We’re singing in a foreign language too,’ said Elf, wonderingly. ‘Imagine a British audience going this crazy –’ she gestures out through the wings ‘– for an Italian act.’
‘They study the lyrics,’ explained Enzo, ‘they feel the music. Your songs, Elf, they say, “Life is sad, is joy, is emotions.” Is universal. Jasper, your songs say, “Life is strange, is wonderland, a dream.” Who does not feel so, sometimes? Dean, your songs say, “Life is a battle, is hard, but you is not alone.” You, Greef, you is a drummer intuitivo. Also, your Italian promoter is a genius.’
A sombre man spoke into Enzo’s ear. Enzo translated, ‘He ask, “Please play a song before they break his theatre.”’
‘We’ve done the whole album,’ said Griff.
‘And all our stash of covers,’ said Dean.
‘Jasper’s new one,’ said Elf. ‘All those in favour?’
The band plus Levon said, ‘Aye.’
‘I’ll introduce it,’ said Dean. ‘Enzo – how do yer say “We love you too” in Italian?’ He had Enzo repeat the phrase until he had it by heart. They filed back onto the stage to be greeted by a Godzilla-sized roar. Jasper strapped on his guitar. Griff took his place. Elf sat at the piano. Dean leaned into his mic: ‘Grazie, Roma – anche noi vi amiamo …’
A woman shrieked, ‘Dean, I want you, baby!’ or possibly, ‘Dean, I want your baby!’
‘Grazie tutti,’ said Dean. ‘One more song?’
Rome howled, ‘Sìììììììì!’ and ‘Yeeeeeesss!’
Dean cupped his hand to his ear. ‘Che cosa?’
The answer was louder than a Comet 4 taking off.
This is a drug, Dean realised, and I am an addict. He looked at Elf. Her look back said, You charmer. ‘Okay, Roma. You win. This next song really is our very last song tonight …’
A giant groan of disappointment fell to Earth.
‘But, I promise, we’ll come back to Italy very soon.’
The groan pulled out of its dive into a cheer.
‘This is by Jasper. It’s called “Nightwatchman”.’
Champagne corks popped. The perfume of lilies was giddying. Very good friends of Enzo flowed in. Half the city appeared to be a very good friend of Enzo. One of them met Dean in the bathroom and gave him a long line of superb cocaine. A galaxy exploded in Dean’s brain. The champagne turned into purple wine. The changing room became a VIP enclosure in the kind of nightclub Dean once fantasised about, with huge chandeliers, women dripping diamonds, fresh from a scene in a James Bond film. Men chortled over cigars and talked in huddles. An Italian guy from a fresco was whispering into Elf’s ear. She was smiling. Dean posted her a look that said, ‘Someone’s on the pull, I see’. Elf’s look back said, ‘What can I say?’ Enzo’s very good friend with the cocaine took him to another bathroom for another bump. A jazz trio was playing ‘I Got It Bad And That Ain’t Good’ when Enzo and Levon appeared. They both wore grave expressions. They crouched by Elf and spoke. Elf’s face changed. Her hands covered her mouth. Levon looked sick and haggard. The handsome suitor vanished.
Dean guessed someone had died. He went over. ‘What?’
Elf opened her mouth but couldn’t yet say it.
‘Elf’s nephew,’ said Levon. ‘Imogen’s baby, Mark. A cot death. He died sometime yester
day night.’
The club frolicked on as if none of this had happened.
‘Oh, Jesus,’ said Dean. ‘Twenty-four hours ago?’
‘My assistant she tell me only now,’ insisted Enzo Endrizzi. ‘The telefono between England and Italy, not is good …’
Elf was shaking and breathing heavily. ‘I have to go home.’
‘We’re leaving tomorrow afternoon,’ Levon reminded her.
‘The first flight in the morning,’ Elf told Dean.
Levon looked at Enzo, who nodded. ‘Is possible. My very good friend, he’s the brother of a boss of Alitalia …’
Elf was looking about her, unable to process anything.
‘Let’s get yer back to the hotel,’ Dean told Elf. ‘Yer’ve got to pack ’n’ everything. I’ll sleep on yer sofa, too …’
Evening enters the cell. The slatted rectangle of sky turns orange, then plague-brown. Dean’s body is aching and sore from his beating. A sickly lamp, bolted to the wall above the door, flickers on. Eight o’clock? Nine o’clock? They took Dean’s watch.
Looks like I’m in for the night, thinks the prisoner.
Dean wonders if the others are in solitary, too. The flight the band were due to have boarded will have landed at Heathrow.
Elf will be at Imogen’s house in Birmingham.
I’m in trouble, thinks Dean, but Imogen must be in hell …
Neither Elf nor Dean slept much last night. Elf talked about her three visits to see her tiny nephew, and how Mark gurgled at his aunt on her last visit. She wept. Dean offered to leave, worried that she might prefer to be alone. She asked him to stay. They dozed for an hour or so. Then the taxi arrived.
She’ll think they’re back in London now.
Nobody will have noticed his and Jasper’s absence yet. Griff’s flatmate won’t be raising any alarms. It’ll take Bethany a while to smell a rat tomorrow, but with luck she’ll call Enzo Endrizzi by mid-afternoon. Then the cavalry should be mobilised. I hope. The floor-level hatch slides open. A tray appears. Dean kneels down by the hatch and fires questions out: ‘Oy! Where are my friends? Where’s my lawyer? How long—’
The hatch snaps shut. Footsteps recede.
Two slices of white bread spread with margarine, a plastic cup of tepid water. The bread tastes of paper. The water tastes of crayons. So much for great Italian food.
Time passes. The hatch slides open. ‘Vassoio,’ says a man.
Dean crouches down by the hatch. ‘Lawyer.’
The voice repeats itself: ‘Vas-soi-o.’
‘Ferlinghetti. Fer-lin-ghetti.’
The hatch snaps shut. Keys jingle. A heavy lock in the door grinds. A big cop with a big nose, big moustache and big gut steps inside. He holds up the tray, points at it and tells Dean, ‘Vas-soi-o.’
‘Vassoio. Tray. Got it. Lawyer? Ferlinghetti? Embassy?’
The big cop’s nasal snort means, Dream on.
‘Grazie mille, Roma.’ Dean quotes the line Enzo taught him at the Mercurio Theatre. ‘Anche noi ti amiamo.’
The cop hands Dean a skimpy roll of skimpy toilet paper, a blanket, and slams the door shut. Dean lies down, hungry for an apple, his guitar, a newspaper, or even a book. Thoughts whisper: What if Günther Marx and Ilex throw yer to the wolves? What if Ferlinghetti decides to send yer down just for a laugh?
The light above the door clicked off. The cell was dark.
A little light entered under the door. That was it.
Why were you such a jealous hypocrite with Amy?
Dean wishes that he hadn’t flown off the handle when he saw Marcus Daly of Battleship Aquarius, drooling over Amy at the 100 Club in Oxford Street two weeks ago. He wishes he hadn’t told Amy to cut the night short, prompting her to reply, ‘Go if you want, but I’m staying,’ and forcing him to leave or to stay and look like a toothless fool. He wishes that when Amy got back – to her own flat – he hadn’t actually said, ‘What time do yer call this?’ As if he was her father, not a lover. Dean wishes, too, he hadn’t started interrogating her like Inspector Moss of Scotland Yard. He wishes he hadn’t called her a ‘Leech with a Typewriter’. He wishes he hadn’t called her a paranoid bitch when she told him she knew about the Dutch girl in Amsterdam. How did she know? Dean wishes he hadn’t flung a marble ashtray into her glass-fronted cabinet, like Harry Moffat on a three-day bender. He wishes he had been man enough to apologise the next day instead of hiding at Chetwynd Mews and letting Amy leave his stuff in a box at Moonwhale. When he went in for a band meeting the day after, Bethany had a look in her eyes and the look said, ‘coward’. Dean could not disagree. It was no way to say goodbye.
He wakes in the Hotel Shit-hole. He’s itchy. He inspects his torso. It’s speckled with insect bites. Several are smeared with blood where he scratched them in his sleep. What wouldn’t I do for a cigarette? He gets up and pees in the shit-hole. His pee smells like chicken soup. He’s thirsty. He’s hungry. In the last twenty-four hours he’s eaten … fuck-all, is what. He knocks on the door. It hurts his knuckles. ‘Hello?’ Nobody comes. ‘HELLO?’
Nobody comes. Don’t give up.
He knocks out the bass-line for ‘Abandon Hope’ …
Footsteps clomp. The eye-hatch snaps open. Dean thinks of the Scotch of St James. ‘Stai morendo?’
Meaning? Dean asks for ‘Aqua, per favore.’
A blast of pissed-off Italian. The hatch snaps shut.
Time drags. The food-hatch snaps open. Breakfast is almost the same as dinner. The bread is staler. There’s coffee served in an aluminium mug but the foam on the surface looks worryingly like phlegm. He thinks about trying to scoop it off to get at the coffee below, then pictures Ferlinghetti’s satisfaction so he leaves the coffee on the tray untouched. He thinks how the middle-classes – the Clive and Miranda Holloways of the world – go from cradle to grave believing that every police officer is a devoted servant of the law. A chant rises up from Dean’s recent memory.
Fuck the pigs!
Fuck the pigs!
Fuck the pigs!
RingRingRing!
RingRingRing!
RingRingRing!
The doorbell at Chetwynd Mews woke Dean up. His head pounded. The day before, the band had played a festival in a field near Milton Keynes. Elf had gone on to Birmingham to visit Imogen, Lawrence and her baby nephew Mark. Dean, Griff and Jasper had brought the Beast back to London, popped a pill and gone to the Ad Lib club. Jasper had left with an Olympic show-jumper from Dulwich and Griff with an Avon Lady, leaving Dean to woo a laughing-eyed half-Cypriot – until Rod Stewart waltzed up and stole her away. The pool of Ad Lib’s 2 a.m. leftovers was by then a puddle. He walked back to the flat with a strong suspicion that the Swinging Sixties weren’t all the papers cracked them up to be, even for a musician who had been on TV not once but twice …
RingRingRing! ‘Oy! Deano! I can see yer boots!’
Kenny Yearwood. Guilt propelled Dean to the front door. His hometown friend was living in a Hammersmith commune with a lentil-eating Tarot-reading girl called Floss. Dean had visited his art college buddy and Gravediggers bandmate exactly once. Kenny had played him a few forgettable self-penned songs, suggesting Dean ‘add a few finishing touches’ and record them with Utopia Avenue under a Yearwood-Moss credit. Dean had laughed at the joke until he realised Kenny was serious. They hadn’t met since. Kenny left messages a couple of times, but Dean assured himself he was too busy to call back. Then Griff had his car crash and Kenny slipped off Dean’s ‘to-do’ list.
‘Open up,’ called Kenny through the letter-box, ‘or I’ll huff ’n’ I’ll puff ’n’ I’ll blow—’ Dean opened up, and was shocked by Kenny’s wholesale transformation from Gravesend ex-mod to West London hippie: caftan, headband, poncho. ‘Yer can run but yer can’t hide.’
‘Morning, Kenny. Floss, how’s tricks?’
‘It’s the afternoon, yer dope,’ said Kenny.
‘The afternoon of the big demo,’ said Floss.
‘Yer what? What big demo
?’
‘The biggest demo of the decade,’ said Floss, ‘against American genocide in Vietnam. We’re gathering in Trafalgar Square and marching to the US Embassy. You are coming?’
If the United States government was hell-bent on turning a luckless country in Asia into an inferno of death, and forcing American teenagers to go and fight and die there, Dean doubted that walking down Oxford Street blowing whistles would change its mind. Before Dean could say so, a young woman floated up the steps to Jasper’s front door, opening a packet of Marlboro. ‘Hi, Dean, I’m Lara. Can we talk as we walk? Mustn’t miss Vanessa Redgrave.’
Lara looked superimposed onto the grey March afternoon. She wore a man’s black parka, open at the front, jeans, boots. Her black hair was streaked with red and she looked capable of anything. Unspent lust woke Dean up. ‘I’ll grab my coat.’
Speeches echoed off the National Gallery. ‘The American war machine won’t stop until every man, woman, child, tree, ox, dog, cat is killed …’ Trafalgar Square was jammed with hippies, students, trade unionists, CND supporters, Trotskyites and concerned citizens of all stripes and none. ‘The economic crisis facing Great Britain and America has its roots in this suicidal war in Vietnam …’ Hundreds more watched from the edges while the police guarded the Whitehall and Pall Mall exits leading to Downing Street and Buckingham Palace. ‘We have travelled from West Germany for a new society, a better future, where imperialism, where war, where capitalism, belong only in the dustbin of history …’ The crowd generated a dim roar by its mere existence. Kenny put the number at ten thousand, Floss at twenty thousand and Lara thought it closer to thirty. Whatever its size, the crowd was a power grid. Dean felt his own nervous system connect to it. Scores of Vietcong flags were clustered around the foot of Nelson’s Column. Placards passed like pages: ‘HELL NO WE WON’T GO!’; ‘VICTORY TO THE VIETCONG!’; ‘WE ARE THE PEOPLE OUR PARENTS WARNED US ABOUT.’ Dean wondered how any of this would stop B52s bombing Vietnamese villages.
After the speeches, the mass of people began to drain up Charing Cross Road. Kenny, Floss, Lara and Dean followed the flow. Past the Phoenix Theatre, past Denmark Street, past Selmer’s Guitars, where Dean’s debt was paid off, finally. Past the doorway that led into the defunct UFO Club. At Tottenham Court Road, the crowd flowed left along Oxford Street. A young squaddie, acne on his face, emerged from the tube station. Peace demonstrators yelled abuse: ‘How many kids did you kill, Soldier Boy?’ before a paternal copper pushed him back down into the tube. ‘Long – live – Ho Chi Minh! Long – live – Ho Chi Minh!’ Oxford Street itself was shuttered, as if in preparation for invasion. Dean thought he glimpsed Mick Jagger, but wasn’t sure. Floss and Kenny told him they had heard John Lennon and his new girlfriend Yoko Ono were marching with the crowd. Whatever the truth, Dean felt the power. He and it were one. The road was theirs. The city was theirs.
Utopia Avenue : A Novel Page 35