Дэвид Митчелл - Utopia Avenue

‘Milk is acceptable,’ states Jasper’s father.

‘How ’bout you … uh, do I call yer Maarten or Mr de Zoet too?’

‘Our ages are close, so you may use my Christian name. Milk is acceptable for me also.’

‘Okey-dokey,’ says Dean. ‘Beans on toast? Bowl o’ Shreddies?’

Missing the irony, Guus checks his wafer-thin watch. ‘We are dining with the Dutch ambassador soon, so we will resist the temptation. It is best we address the matter in hand and leave.’

‘ Soon ’ and ‘ leave ’ sound good. ‘Address away,’ says Dean.

‘You must vacate this flat by the end of July.’

Yer what? ‘But me ’n’ Jasper live here.’ Dean looks at Jasper who is not surprised. They must have told him in Dutch.

‘Yes, and from the first day of August,’ says Guus de Zoet, ‘Maarten and his bride will live here.’

Jasper asks his half-brother something in Dutch.

Maarten replies in English. ‘In April, in Ghent. Zoë’s people are in banking. She’s the daughter of a friend of Mother. My mother, I mean, of course.’

This family is screwed up , thinks Dean, even by Moffat-Moss standards. Jasper says, ‘Congratulations.’

Maarten answers with a few calm Dutch words.

‘Hang on a mo.’ Dean is not calm. ‘Yer did say Jasper was yer son and not some random tenant? I didn’t dream that bit?’

Guus de Zoet sips his tea. ‘Jasper has discussed his … origins?’

‘There’s a lot of hours to fill ’n’ kill if yer in a band. Yer talk. So, yeah. I do know how yer got his mum up the duff in India. And how yer acted like he didn’t exist till his granddad bloody well made yer.’

Guus de Zoet puffs on his Chesterfield. ‘You paint me as the villain of this movie.’

‘How d’yer paint yerself, Mr de Zoet? The victim?’

‘Not entirely. I acknowledge Jasper in law. We, the de Zoets, allow him to use the family name.’

‘Yer want a sainthood for that, do yer?’

Guus de Zoet makes a face like a reasonable man in vexing circumstances. ‘Young men make mistakes. Don’t you?’

A bloody ton , thinks Dean, but bugger me if I admit it.

The Dutchman blows smoke away. ‘I paid for Jasper’s education. For his summers in Domburg. For a sanatorium. I presume you know?’ He looks at Jasper, who nods. ‘For his conservatory in Amsterdam. And for this flat.’

‘Which yer now kicking him out of.’

‘The fact is,’ says Maarten, ‘Jasper is illegitimate. That is not his fault. But he cannot have the same claims on the de Zoet name as I. Sorry, but this is how the world works. He accepts that.’

‘There’s only two real bastards here.’ Dean folds his arms and looks at Maarten and Guus de Zoet.

‘I am pleased Jasper has an –’ Jasper’s father tap-taps on the ashtray ‘– advocate. But, Jasper, I was clear that your tenancy was likely to be temporary? Correct?’

Jasper inspects the calluses on his fingers. ‘Correct.’

Oh, for fucksake , thinks Dean. Why do I bother?

‘You were not entitled to sub-let,’ adds Maarten.

‘I didn’t,’ replies Jasper. ‘Dean paid no rent.’

‘Ah,’ smirks Maarten, ‘no wonder he’s so upset.’

‘And with all your success,’ adds Guus de Zoet, ‘you will not have to sleep on a bench in Kensington Gardens, I think.’

Maarten stands up. ‘I will inspect the two bedrooms.’

Dean stands up. ‘No, yer won’t.’

‘You are forgetting who owns this flat.’

Dean sizes Maarten up. He’s a couple of inches taller, pudgier, better teeth, smooth skin. And more afraid o’ getting hurt. ‘We’ll leave by September the first. But till then our rooms’re private, matey. So yer can fuck off.’

De Zoet Senior stubs out his Chesterfield. ‘Perhaps Dean is hiding an embarrassing secret, Maarten. The inspection can wait.’ He converses in Dutch with Jasper and the language-shutter falls. Dean retreats to his room, where Tiffany’s getting ready to leave …

The unwelcome de Zoets are gone, Jasper is in the bath, and Janis Joplin is on the turntable. Dean washes up the tea things, telling himself that any similarities between his recent conduct and the younger Guus de Zoet’s are superficial. He never lied to Mandy Craddock. He didn’t get her pregnant knowing he already had a family. He has no proof that he is her baby’s father. Dean opens a beer and sinks onto the sofa. So we need a new flat by September . He could afford a place of his own now. I’d miss Jasper, Dean realises. When Dean first met this unsmiling, public school, half-Dutch weirdo he was a free place to stay, a great guitarist and that was that. Eighteen months later, he’s a friend. There’s so much in that word. Dean tunes his new acoustic Martin and feels around for the ‘Sad Eyed Lady Of The Lowlands’ chords. D … A … G … A? He fetches the double album from his room, where Tiffany’s scent still lingers, and puts side four on the stereo in the lounge. ‘ With your mercury mou th in the missionary times ’ is D, A, G, A7. ‘ And your eyes like smoke and your prayers like rhymes ’ has the same pattern, but the third line is different, as third lines tend to be. G … D … E minor? Dean tries picking instead of strumming. Better . Better. Try an F minor instead of the G. No, F. One spoon of Dylan makes a gallon of meanings. Why don’t I try to write lyrics like this? A song about how one brief phone call can change what you are. How a call from Tiffany Hershey – ‘Join me for a cocktail at the Hilton’ – turned them into adulterous lovers. How stability is illusory. How certainty is ignorance. Dean gets a biro and starts writing. Time slips. Jasper’s out of the bath. Time slips again. The doorbell rings. Jasper’s getting it. It’s probably Elf.

Jasper’s saying, ‘It’s for you.’

It takes Dean a moment to recognise the scrawny, zombie-eyed couple at the door as Kenny Yearwood and his girlfriend, Floss. ‘Hey, Kenny. Floss. It’s been ages.’ Dean’s mind boomerangs to the day of the riot in Grosvenor Square, and back to now. He stops himself asking, ‘How are yer?’ The answer’s clear: They’re junkies. Kenny’s tense. ‘Has Rod Dempsey called?’

‘Not recently, no. Why?’

‘Can we step inside?’

They want money . ‘Sure, but me ’n’ Jasper’re off out.’

‘We won’t be staying.’ Floss glances around the mews.

Dean lets them step into the hallway. They both have rucksacks. ‘We want our thirty quid,’ declares Floss.

What thirty quid? ‘Yer what?’

‘Kenny lent it you at the 2i’s,’ says Floss. ‘Last year.’

‘ That? That was a fiver. Kenny, I paid yer back at the Bag o’ Nails. The night Geno Washington was playing. Remember?’

Kenny turns away his bloodshot eyes.

‘Thirty, it was.’ Floss pushes back her hair, revealing the crook of her elbow, a lesion and needle damage. ‘You can’t plead poverty now, pop star.’

Dean asks Kenny, ‘Mate, what’s going on?’

Kenny looks barely alive. ‘Give us a minute, Floss.’

Floss is no longer the head-in-the-clouds hippie girl Dean met. She’s fractured and sharp-edged. ‘Don’t let him fob you off. Give me the cigarettes.’

‘Yer smoked the last one on the tube, Floss.’

Dean has a packet in his shirt pocket and offers her one. Floss takes five and goes outside. Kenny says, ‘She’s nicer than that. Nothing fucks yer up as bad as shame. So I’m learning.’

‘Kenny, what’s happened?’