Utopia Avenue : A Novel

by Mitchell, David

  ‘A soul-transplant.’

  Marinus sips his miso soup. ‘You could say so.’

  Tulips in a vase are wine-red and snow-streaked.

  ‘What if Enomoto starts brewing Oil of Souls again?’

  ‘Then he becomes an enemy of Horology.’ Marinus munches a pickle. ‘It’s a risk. The ethics of what we do are grey, I admit. But if ethics aren’t grey they aren’t really ethics.’

  Jasper eats a mushroom. ‘So Horology is a kind of … psychosoteric FBI. What a job.’

  There may be a smile under Marinus’s frown.

  Jasper has cleared his plate. He runs his thumb over his guitarist’s calluses. ‘What do I do now?’

  ‘What do you want to do?’

  Jasper considers. ‘Write a song. Before this fades.’

  ‘Then go back to the Chelsea Hotel and write a song. Everyone’s at it there, I’m told. Go forth. Multiply. Your body looks good for five or six more decades.’

  Levon and the band … ‘The others! They’ll think … I’ve been kidnapped. Or … What about last night at the Ghepardo?’

  Marinus dabs his mouth with his napkin. ‘Xi Lo redacted a few minutes from the mnemo-parallaxi of all the witnesses.’

  ‘I have no idea what that sentence means.’

  ‘Their memories of what happened backstage have been wiped and replaced by a cover story. You collapsed onstage. An ambulance took you to the private clinic of a colleague of your Dutch doctor for tests and observation. It’s not far from the truth. I telephoned Mr Frankland earlier with the good news that I’ve identified the cause of your collapse: an endocrinal imbalance, treatable with a course of anticoagulants.’ He takes a pill-box from inside his jacket and slides it to Jasper. ‘A stage prop. They’re only sugar, but they’re big and impressive.’

  Jasper takes the box. I’ll never need Queludrin again. ‘Can I play tonight’s gig at the Ghepardo?’

  ‘You’d better, after all this trouble.’ A young woman has arrived. She has oil-black hair, a heather-coloured dress and a silent way of moving. ‘Your colour’s back, de Zoet.’ She’s familiar.

  ‘You brought in the wheelchair for me last night.’

  ‘I’m Unalaq. I’m driving you to your hotel.’

  Time to go. Marinus is walking him to the elevator.

  ‘I had more questions I was hoping to ask.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ says the serial reincarnatee, ‘but further answers would be superfluous.’

  Jasper steps inside the panelled elevator. ‘Thank you.’

  Marinus studies him over his glasses. ‘I see your ancestor Jacob in you. A middling billiards player, but a good man.’

  Unalaq says very little as she drives Jasper across a drizzly Manhattan. Horologists don’t talk much. Carlo Gesualdo’s haunted madrigals fill the silence. The anonymous black car crosses Central Park, where Jasper got lost only a night and half a day ago. The streets beyond the park become scrubbier, and soon they pull up at the Chelsea Hotel. Unalaq peers up at the brick cliff-face of windows, balconies and masonry. ‘The opening party lasted a whole week.’

  ‘I won’t remember any of this, will I?’

  Unalaq doesn’t say yes and doesn’t say no.

  ‘I understand. If the government knew about Horology, they’d put you all in a lab and you’d never see sunlight again.’

  ‘I’d like to see them try,’ says Unalaq.

  ‘Or if the public knew about predators like Enomoto … Or that death is postpone-able … What wouldn’t change? What wouldn’t the powerful do for a supply of Oil of Souls?’

  A garbage truck growls by. Glass smashes in its innards.

  ‘Your life is waiting, Jasper.’

  ‘Could I just ask if Horology—’

  Jasper is on the pavement looking at Unalaq’s Arctic eyes.

  ‘Horology?’ she asks. ‘Isn’t that repairing old clocks? I don’t know much about it, I’m afraid. Bye, then.’

  Jasper watches the car vanish around the corner.

  ‘Buddy,’ says a drug dealer at Jasper’s shoulder. ‘Whadd’ya need? If I ain’t got it, I’ll get it. Tell me. Whadd’ya really need?’

  Elf, Dean, Griff and Levon sit around a Spanish breakfast.

  ‘Eh up,’ says Griff. ‘Here comes Trouble.’

  ‘Of all the ways to dodge an encore,’ says Elf.

  ‘Got a decent review, considering.’ Dean holds up the New York Star. ‘’Pparently yer collapsed ’cause of …’ he searched for the line ‘… “incandescent creative genius”. Who knew?’

  Levon stands up and clasps Jasper’s shoulder. ‘I woke up and thought, Shit, I don’t even have the name of the clinic! Then the phone went, and it was Dr … Marino telling me all was well. I nearly died of relief.’

  ‘Indestructible, is our Jasper,’ says Dean. ‘He’s prob’ly immortal but hasn’t told anyone.’

  ‘What is “an endocrinal imbalance” exactly?’ asks Elf.

  ‘Elf,’ says Dean. ‘Let the poor guy catch his breath. Jasper mate. Sit down. Have a splash o’ coffee. How d’yer feel?’

  From now on, Jasper decides, I am a student of feelings. ‘I feel …’ He looks at his friends. ‘As if my life is beginning.’

  I’m A Stranger Here Myself

  Why bloody not? Dean loops the strap of his Brownie around his neck, climbs onto the balcony railing, grabs the arching trunk of the tree and starts to shimmy up it, koala-like. The bark is scaly and warm against his skin. Below, Laurel Canyon falls away. Shallow-angled roofs, flat roofs, plants from Tarzan films and swimming pools in backyards. Not ‘back gardens’ in America. Dean reaches a ‘Y’ in the trunk and perches there. The ground’s a long way down. Broken limbs if not a broken neck. He looks through the Brownie’s viewfinder, doubtful that the camera could capture a tenth of the majesty of the view. Los Angeles, gridded by streets, flat as a puddle, a mile off. The Pacific Ocean is a navy stripe, tinselled. I’m the first known Moss or Moffat to see it. The Californian sky is the one real true-blue sky. British blue skies are just a cheap knock-off. Same goes for flowers. Flowers here spill, explode and riot. Scarlet trumpets, frothy lilacs, blushing stars, twisted spires. What a place, what a day, what a time … Cars rumble. Insects wind and unwind. Birds call strange notes. Dean takes a photo, just to show Ray and Shanks when he gets back. Landwards is Joni Mitchell’s verandah, almost level with the ‘Y’ that Dean is perched on. She’s trying out versions of a first line: ‘I slept last night in a fine hotel …’ Then, ‘I spent last night in a good hotel.’ Then, ‘I love to stay in a fab hotel …’ The melody’s beautiful. I’m going to ask Elf for piano lessons …

  The longer Dean’s away from London, the less he wants to go back. Reverse-homesickness. In England’s favour, ‘Roll Away The Stone’ is now at number twelve in the UK charts. Utopia Avenue, if it was a football team, has spent its life knocking about in the lower reaches of Division Three. Almost overnight, they’ve been promoted to the top half of Division One. People are starting to recognise Dean, and ask for his autograph. Including bouncers at nightclubs. He has a cherry red Triumph Spitfire in a lock-up behind Levon’s flat in Bayswater. Not to mention regular nookie with Tiffany Seabrook, foxier than all my old girlfriends rolled into one. On the other hand, England also means the Craddocks, a baby boy who might be Dean’s son, and Craddock’s lawyer who is proving to be no push-over. England means Rod Dempsey, who is acting more like a Kray Twin by the day. England is 80 per cent income tax, miserable weather, strikes, only one flavour of ice cream – white. Plus, if Great Britain likes the band, America bloody loves us. After their rocky opening night at the Ghepardo, the band played three strong shows to growing houses. Jimi Hendrix hung out backstage on the Friday. Ginger Baker wants Dean on his next LP. A coloured model made a move on him several nights ago at the Chelsea. How could a gentleman refuse?

  ‘Dean?’ Elf’s on the balcony in her yellow hippie-chick shift, looking around. Her hair’s bundled up in a towel. She can’t see him.
He’s tempted to hide, but: ‘Me Tarzan,’ he calls down, ‘you Jane.’

  ‘Jesus! Is that safe?’

  ‘Relax. I’ve read a million Spiderman comics.’

  ‘You have a phone call.’

  Here? ‘Well, yer can tell whoever that I’m up a palm tree in Laurel Canyon, and I’m never coming down. Unless it’s Jimi, Ginger, or Janis. I’ll come down for them.’

  ‘What about Rod?’

  ‘Rod Stewart? Seriously?’

  ‘No, you dolt. Rod Dempsey. Your pal.’

  The forty-foot drop below lurches into four hundred. Dean grips tight. ‘Uh …’ If I avoid him, he’ll guess it’s ’cause I helped Kenny ’n’ Floss skip town. ‘Tell him I’m on my way …’

  ‘All hail the King of America!’

  ‘Yer voice is dead clear.’ Dean tries to sound casual. ‘Who knew the phone lines stretched this far?’

  ‘Age o’ the satellite, matey. Tour going well? The NME said yer went down a storm in New York.’

  Dean feels like a defendant having his guard lowered by a few easy openers. ‘Jasper collapsed onstage the first night, but he’s fine now. This’ll be costin’ yer an arm ’n’ a leg. What can I do for yer?’

  ‘First off, my estate agent says yer ’n’ Jasper can move into the Covent Garden flat. No deposit needed for a pal o’ yours truly.’

  ‘T’riffic, Rod. Thanks a lot.’

  ‘Happy to help. Item two’s a bit less t’riffic, I’m afraid.’

  He knows about Kenny ’n’ Floss. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Delicate one, this, so I’ll jump straight in. Two days ago I heard a nasty rumour ’bout a set o’ shall-we-say “artistic” pictures of the missus of a famous filmmaker doing the dirty with a young British bass player on the top floor o’ the Hyde Park Embassy.’

  How? How? Down the wooden hallway, Elf and Jasper are harmonising on Jasper’s ‘Who was that in Central Park? Who was laughing in the dark?’ line.

  Rod asks, ‘Yer still with me?’

  ‘Yer seen ’em? The pics? With yer own eyes?’

  ‘I took the liberty, yeah. ‘Cause we’re mates. I needed to check if the rumour was bollocks or kosher. ’Fraid to say, it’s kosher.’

  Dean forces himself to ask: ‘What can yer see?’

  ‘Handcuffs. Faces. Coke. Not only the faces. They’ve got yer.’

  Beads in the doorway clack in the draught. ‘Who took ’em?’

  ‘Probl’y, an insider at the Hilton recognised yer and tipped off a specialist. Looks like a hole was drilled through the adjoining wall. They’re top quality. All very James Bond.’

  ‘Who’d bother? I’m not John bloody Profumo. Tiffany’s no spy.’

  ‘Yer’ve both a public reputation and money to pay to protect it.’

  ‘I’m not rich compared to’ – drug dealers and pimps – ‘stockbrokers or estate agents.’

  ‘The News o’ the Screws’d pay upwards o’ three grand for pics o’ you ’n’ Mrs Hershey. Stings like this’re commoner’n yer’d think.’

  Dean imagines the scandal, and Anthony Hershey’s reaction. The film deal would be off. Tiffany’s career would be over. She’ll be ‘the adulterous mother of two’ for the rest of her days.

  ‘Yer’ve gone all quiet on me,’ says Rod.

  ‘It’s a bloody nightmare, is why.’

  ‘Cheer up, yer got a few options. Well, three.’

  ‘Revolver, noose or sleeping pills?’

  ‘Stick, carrot or “scarrot”. The stick is, yer tell the bright spark who took the photos that if the pics surface yer’ll have him put in a wheelchair. People get persuadable when it comes to kneecaps.’

  ‘I can’t blame them. So do I.’

  ‘Trouble is, what if they call yer bluff? Yer’ve either got to back off or carry out the threat. Conspiracy to commit GBH’ll earn yer two-to-four years.’

  ‘If that’s the stick, what’s the carrot?’

  ‘Cough up the bread for the negs.’

  ‘What stops the bastards coming back for more?’

  ‘’Xactly. That’s the problem with carrots. My friendly advice is, respond with a “scarrot”. Stick and carrot. Yer say, “Congrats, yer got me fair ’n’ square. I like a quiet life, so here’s a contract. Sign it, and a thousand quid’ll appear in yer account three days from now. Send the negs and another grand’ll appear three days later. But if yer ever darken my door again, it’s war. If one o’ them pictures appears, anywhere, by fuck you will regret it. Deal? Good. Sign on the dotted line and no funny business.” Or language o’ that ilk. Then yer can also get ’em for blackmail, if they Judas yer.’

  The beads clack as if somebody has just passed through. ‘I don’t think I could say all o’ that,’ says Dean. ‘Not convincingly.’

  ‘It ain’t yer speciality. But give me the nod and I’ll administer the scarrot. Since I’ve already had dealings.’

  Dean thinks of the money. ‘Two bloody grand.’

  ‘When nobbing married actresses, change yer hotel. Yer can afford it, mate. What yer can’t afford is for this to get out. Yer lady friend, she’d be well ’n’ truly pokered. The divorce. The disgrace.’

  He’s right. ‘Do it, Rod. Please. The scarrot.’

  A car pulls up in the driveway outside. Levon ’n’ Griff.

  ‘Leave it with me,’ says Rod. ‘But, Dean, first – give me yer word yer won’t breathe a thing to yer manager or yer lady friend. If it all goes tits up, the fewer the people yer’ve told, the better. Yeah?’

  ‘Agreed. I promise. And thanks.’

  ‘It’s Gravesend boys versus the world. We’ll get through this. I’ll call again soon to let yer know how it went.’ Click.

  Purrr . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Dean hangs up.

  ‘The LA Times loves you,’ Levon enters the house, carrying a box of groceries. ‘You’re the hottest ticket in town.’

  ‘Look at this.’ Griff holds up a real pineapple. ‘Just like off the front of a can. Cost less than a can. What a fookin’ country!’

  ‘Good news,’ says Dean. ‘Rod Dempsey just called from London. Me ’n’ Jasper can move into that flat in Covent Garden.’

  Levon can’t quite hide how pleased he is. ‘It was a pleasure to have you and Jasper camping in my flat for a week, but …’

  ‘Yer can have too much of a good thing, right?’

  In a zap of Californian daylight, Anthony Hershey enters the wood-lined control room at Gold Star Studios. Dean’s glad of the low lighting. He feels as if the word ‘GUILT’ is written across his face. He presses the talkback switch and tells Elf, Jasper and Griff, ‘Tony’s arrived, guys.’

  The Californian Anthony Hershey is brasher than his London version, and sports a new goatee and a Hawaiian-print shirt. Dean looks for signs of cuckolded venom, but finds none. ‘Tiff says hi, Dean,’ Hershey tells him. ‘We spoke last night.’

  ‘Bless her. Say hi back. How is she?’

  ‘Oh, you know Tiff. Busy busy busy. Handling the boys, running the house, staying on top of the paperwork …’

  He doesn’t know. ‘Brilliant lady is your missus. She had that Triumph salesman eating out of her hand.’

  ‘I’m a lucky man. I know it.’

  Elf, Griff and Jasper file in from the studio. ‘Howdy, all,’ says Hershey. ‘Congratulations on the LA Times piece this morning. Sounds like a heck of show. I’ll be there tonight if I can.’

  ‘I’ll put your name on the comp list,’ says Levon. ‘Doug Weston says after last night the tickets are hot enough to give third degree burns. The band were damn tight at the Ghepardo, but folks will be talking about Utopia Avenue’s run at the Troubadour in 1968 for the rest of the century. Mark my words.’

  ‘It’s true,’ says Jasper, innocently. ‘We are playing well.’

  Anthony Hershey flips aside the awkward moment. ‘You’re working like Trojans, that’s for sure. I saw your itinerary. San Francisco after here. Press conference later today. What’s the TV slot? Smothers Brothers?’<
br />
  ‘Randy Thorn Goes Pop!’ Levon checks his watch. ‘Forgive me for turning all managerial, Tony, but time’s a little tight.’

  ‘To business, then. Band. Levon’s told me that between conquering the United States, you’ve found time to think about our Narrow Road project.’

  ‘Dean’s taken the lead on this one,’ says Elf.

  ‘Then speak to me, Dean.’

  ‘I’m not the world’s biggest reader, but that screenplay yer sent, I picked it up, and uh … yeah. It really got under my skin.’

  ‘Good,’ says Hershey. ‘I’m very proud of it.’

  So was Tiffany, thinks Dean. ‘Strikes me, the whole film’s ’bout freedom. Pilgrim’s this star, but he’s still a slave. It’s “Keep making records”, “Keep feeding the machine”, “Keep touring.” That bit where his manager says, “You want to know what freedom is? It’s over there!” and points to the tramp in the doorway. Pilgrim’s only jolted out o’ the Great Showbiz Machine when he’s told he’s got just three months to live. So off he goes ’n’ finds the Commune o’ the Free, but once he’s inside, it’s a psychedelic concentration camp. Being square’s a hanging offence. Literally. The Guru’s just another king, or a god, or Chairman Mao. And when Pilgrim’s forced to sing his old hits, he’s just as much a slave as he ever was, right?’

  ‘We’re in talks with Rock Hudson to play the Guru,’ says the director. ‘But carry on. Freedom.’

  ‘Freedom runs through this story like letters through seaside rock,’ says Dean. ‘What freedom isn’t: not a jingle, not a slogan, not an anthem, not a lifestyle, not a drug, not a status symbol. Not even power. But when Pilgrim ’n’ Piper’re on the road, the story looks at what freedom is. It’s inner. It’s limited. It’s fragile. It’s a journey. It’s easily robbed. It’s not selfish. It’s not commandable. Only the not-free can see it. Freedom’s a struggle. It’s in the struggle. Like Paradise Is the Road to Paradise, maybe freedom’s the road to freedom.’ Dean feels self-conscious and lights a cigarette. Elf and Levon are watching him in a new way. Griff ought to crack a joke, but he doesn’t. Anthony Hershey’s looking serious. ‘So, yeah, in my four-four rhythm sort o’ way, I’m doing a song that captures all o’ this. Or trying to. Elf’s got a cracking piano figure we’re weaving in, and Mr Stratocaster there is working his usual magic. And that’s where we’re up to. Sorry if I’ve read yer script wrong, Tony.’