Дэвид Митчелл - Utopia Avenue

Everyone looks at her. Dean looks hopeful.

It’s easier to do it than not. ‘Okay, then, but—’ Cheers smother Elf’s disclaimer as she perches on the bar-stool and Lenny hands her Jackson’s guitar. ‘If it all goes tits up, I’m blaming Janis’s weed. Um …’ What to sing? ‘ I’ll try something I wrote on the plane.’ Back when I hoped Lu might be waiting at Arrivals. She takes her notepad from her handbag and sits a candle-jar on the corner of the page. ‘It follows the tune of an old English folk song, “The Devil And The Pigman”. Could anyone lend me a plectrum?’ Jackson hands her his. ‘Thanks.’ She counts herself in.

As far off as an icy glare

is from summer laughter –

as ‘Once upon a time’ is from

‘Happy ever after’ –

As far off as the brutal truth

is from prose gone purple,

as far away as death from birth

unless life is a circle –

Pluto and the far-off Sun –

how far you are from me.

As far as ‘now’ from ‘never’ is,

philosophically –

Elf strums and hums a bridge but doesn’t attempt a solo – Jackson’s virtuosity is too fresh in her ears, and she hasn’t written a song on the guitar since joining Utopia Avenue. ‘Insert a Jasper de Zoet solo here,’ she tells the roof-garden, ‘on Spanish guitar, something frisky … with Dean on harmonica, here , maybe –’ Elf gently howls how the solo might go ‘– like a homesick werewolf …’ She glances at Dean who nods back Yer got it . Part two …

Yet love collapses distances –

love, and curiosity.

Love is a kind of telescope –

love is pure velocity.

Love ignores the rules of love –

those rules stamped on the heart.

Perhaps those rules had reasons, once.

Perhaps those reasons weren’t so smart.

Love comes and goes, a feral cat –

unbound by human vow.

Humbly, then, I beg of love –

be here now.

Elf strums another vocal-less verse and inverts the melody, closing on a stumbled-upon chord she doesn’t know the name of – an oddball F – that leaves a question hanging in the air. People applaud. It works. She looks at these new, brief acquaintances, these strangers, at Janis and Lenny, at Griff – drunk – and at Dean who’s placed a hand on his heart to say, I love it , and at Luisa Rey, her hawkish eyes and faraway smile. No no no – this is too much, too scripted. Elf doesn’t smile, yet: she can’t. She’s too astonished. It’s too corny. You don’t just show up as I’m singing verses written specifically to conjure you. Then Elf thinks, This is New York – the moon is full – why am I even surprised?

‘They told me they’d kill me if I didn’t leave the city,’ says Luisa. ‘My editor was warned by his NYPD guy that the threat was genuine.’

‘My sweet God, Lu.’ Elf wants to hug her close, and she could if Luisa was a boyfriend, but Janis Joplin’s rooftop is too public.

‘The cops told the Spyglass staff to hang up on anyone trying to find out where I was. That’s why you got the brush-off. I’m only sorry my note didn’t reach you. I assumed it would.’

‘Stuff that. You poor thing. It sounds … hideous.’

‘A story about protection rackets was never going to be popular. We just didn’t think it would blow up so quickly.’

‘Where did you go?’ asks Elf. ‘Your parents?’

‘I didn’t want to risk it. Dad’s in Vietnam, Mom’s alone. A friend has a log cabin in the mountains near Red Hook, upstate.’

‘And yer sure yer out o’ danger now?’ asks Dean.

‘I got lucky. A Mafia feud came to a head. Six people were shot dead in New Jersey yesterday. Two of them were the … gentlemen who had threatened me and Spyglass . My editor’s detective reckons we should be out of the woods. I live to write another day.’

‘It’s a fookin’ gangster movie,’ says Griff.

‘Less fun, more squalid, a lot more real.’

In Room 939’s tiny kitchenette, Elf makes hot chocolate for Luisa, fresh out of the shower. ‘My mind keeps replaying the last week and a half,’ says Elf. ‘While I was all “Poor me” you were this far from a bullet.’

‘You didn’t know.’ Luisa wraps her hair in a towel. ‘I didn’t know you didn’t know. I couldn’t tell you. We’ve survived.’

‘Would asking you to stick to restaurant reviews work?’

‘Would asking you to write bubblegum pop songs work?’

‘Never get so numb to danger that you get blasé. Promise me.’

‘My dad warns me against exactly that danger.’ Luisa kisses her. ‘I promise.’ They step onto the balcony and sit in deckchairs with their hot chocolate, like two old people on holiday. Luisa lights them both a Camel. They watch each other, and take a drag simultaneously so the tips glow in unison – and laugh.

‘Guess what I’m doing now,’ says Elf.

‘What are you doing now?’ asks Luisa.

‘I’m sending a mind-telegram back in time to myself. To the night at Les Cousins when Levon and the boys invited me to a try-out. And in that mind-telegram, I’m telling myself, “SAY YES”.’

‘And?’

‘And this: “ Because if you say yes, then over the next twenty months, you’ll record two LPs; go on Top of the Pops; play dozens and dozens of shows; earn some money; have a few ups and downs with your love-life; go to New York; be flirted with by Leonard Cohen; share a sister-in-music confession with Janis Joplin; but best of all, you’ll meet a smart, funny, brave, kind, future Pulitzer Prize-winning ”’ – she hushes Luisa’s objections – ‘“ and very sexy Mexican-Irish-American woman – yes, a woman. You’ll make mad, passionate love with this woman ”—’

‘God, you sound so English.’

‘Shush –“ You’ll make mad passionate love in the Chelsea Hotel, and drink hot chocolate, and you won’t ask yourself ‘Am I a lesbian now’ or ‘Am I bisexual?’ or ‘Was I repressed before?’ or ‘ Am I now?’ or any of that. No. You’ll feel true and right and … you’ll run out of words for how good you feel. So for your own good … SAY YES .” Here ends my mind-telegram. STOP. Send.’

‘I love your telegram,’ says Luisa. ‘Though it’s turned into a letter, really, hasn’t it?’

Elf nods, smokes, sips her hot chocolate, and holds her lover’s hand. Nine floors below, a yellow cab prowls West 23rd Street by the Chelsea Hotel, looking for a fare …

Who Shall I Say Is Calling?

Jasper was eighteen. Queludrin was failing. Knock Knock was resurgent and eroding his mind. His resistance might last weeks. It wouldn’t last months. Three mornings after Heinz Formaggio had embarked for his American future, Jasper decided that a quick release was better than being reduced to mental rubble. Jasper got dressed, washed his face, brushed his teeth and went down to breakfast. The auctioneer from Delft narrated his dream in a quick-fire mumble. After breakfast, Jasper went to the dispensary, as usual. The ink of ‘J. de ZOET’ on his pill-tray label was fading. Jasper took his two pale-blue Queludrins. Dr Galavazi was away at a symposium.

Up in his room, Jasper put a note inside his guitar case: ‘ For Formaggio, if he wants it .’ He put on his coat, retrieved a dusty rucksack from the top of his cupboard, went to the main entrance and asked for a morning pass. The junior psychiatrist on duty was surprised by the shy agoraphobe’s request. Jasper told a plausible lie about the benign influence of his friend Formaggio. The duty-doctor asked if he wanted a companion. ‘I want to conquer my demon myself,’ said Jasper. ‘I won’t go far.’ Satisfied, the psychiatrist wrote out the pass, noted the time in his logbook, and signalled to the gatekeeper that the young patient had permission to leave …