Дэвид Митчелл - Utopia Avenue

Jasper woke to blustery sunlight on the ceiling.

How do you feel? asked a Mongolian spirit.

‘As if an object the size of an acorn, or bullet, is embedded in my brain. It doesn’t hurt. But it’s there. Like a benign tumour.’

Benign on the outside, malign on the inside. That’s the cauterised barrier I’ve cut around your guest. His cell, if you like .

‘So I can stop taking Queludrin … from today?’

That’s the point. Knock Knock can’t get at you.

‘Persuading Dr Galavazi that I’m cured won’t be easy.’

I disagree. Your recovery is his medical triumph. Shake hands with him after breakfast. I’ll transfer over and plant an idea or two. He’s a good man.

‘Why not announce yourself to him, like you did with me?’

I don’t want him to lose his faith in psychiatry. The world has too many mystics and too few scientists.

‘What should I tell him?’

The Mongolian thought. Everything except the suicide attempt. Just say I came to you on your walk.

‘If I do, he’ll definitely think I’m crazy.’

Yet here you are, healthier and happier. I predict Dr Galavazi will interpret your recovery and ‘the Mongolian’ in psychiatric terms. Who knows? Good may come of it …

Knock-knock on the door of Room 777 in the Chelsea Hotel. Jasper wakes. The sleeping pill dug him only a shallow grave. Knock-knock. Maybe it’s Elf or Griff or Dean. Jasper doubts it. Knock-knock. Jasper gets up, goes to the door and looks out through the spyhole.

Nobody.

He’s back. It’s official. My remission is over.

Knock-knock. Jasper opens the door. The yellow corridors stretch in both directions, punctuated by brown doors.

Nobody.

Jasper shuts the door, attaches the chain and—

Knock-knock. Jasper senses him. The prey senses the predator. He goes to the bathroom to take another Queludrin. Twelve remain. Only six days’ supply. I’ll have to get more, and soon.

Knock-knock. Since the party at the Roundhouse for Stuff of Life , Jasper has heard these bleary nearby knockings.

Knock-knock. On the aeroplane, the knocking was loud and clear. Did Jasper’s dread of flying somehow empower—

Knock-knock. Jasper’s watch says 12.19 a.m. He took two Queludrin only six hours ago, when the aeroplane was circling over New York. At Rijksdorp, they lasted twelve hours, easily.

Knock-knock. Jasper tips two pale blue pills onto his palm and washes them down with half a glass of New York water. Pages of The Times are taped over the big mirror. ‘AIR FRANCE FLIGHT 1611 CRASHES INTO SEA OFF NICE WITH LOSS OF 95 LIVES’ . Jasper cleans his teeth while the Queludrin penetrates his brain . After three or four minutes he puts his toothbrush in the glass, and—

A slow, mocking knock … knock.

What if it no longer works at all?

Jasper knocks loud and hard on the door of Room 912 until Levon’s bleary face appears over the safety-chain.

‘I have to call the Netherlands,’ says Jasper.

‘ What? ’ Levon blinks.

‘I have to call the Netherlands.’

‘It’ll be six in the morning there.’

‘I need to speak with my doctor.’

‘They have doctors in New York. I’ll ask Max, in—’

‘Do you want me to perform tomorrow or not?’

This works. Levon opens the door and gestures him inside. His pyjamas are canary yellow. Jasper gives his manager a scrap of paper with Dr Galavazi’s number on it. Levon calls down to the switchboard, reads out the number, confirms the call, agrees, ‘Yes, I know it’ll cost me,’ and hands Jasper the receiver. ‘Make it quick. Please. We aren’t filling stadiums yet.’

‘I need privacy,’ states Jasper.

Levon’s face goes doubly illegible. He puts a gown over his pyjamas and leaves the room.

Jasper hears the Dutch ring-tone from the earpiece.

Knock Knock knock-knocks over the ring-ring s …

The doctor answers. ‘It’s damned early, whoever you are.’

Jasper speaks in Dutch. ‘Dr Galavazi, I need your help.’

A pause. ‘Good morning, Jasper. Where are you?’

‘Levon’s room in the Chelsea Hotel in New York.’

‘New York is a sucked orange, according to Emerson.’

Jasper thinks about this. ‘Knock Knock’s come back. Really, really back. Not just on his way.’

A long pause. ‘Symptoms?’

‘Knocking. Lots of knocking. It’s not relentless yet, but I feel him. Smirking. Like a cat toying with a bird. And the Queludrin’s losing its potency. Two pills last six or seven hours. I took another one as we landed, but Knock Knock’s knocking again.’

Knock-knock.

‘Jasper? Are you still there?’

‘He knocked. Just now. There’s no Mongolian to save me this time. If Queludrin stops working, I’m defenceless.’

‘Then we need to find another drug that does.’

‘What if I ask a doctor, “Give me a drug to stop these noises in my head?” and he locks me up in a padded cell? This is America. America’s the world-leader for locking people up.’

A pause. ‘Getting agitated won’t help.’

‘Then what will help, Dr Galavazi?’

‘Right now, sleep. Do you have any sleeping pills?’

‘I took one, but Knock Knock woke me up.’

‘Take two. I’ll contact my colleague, Dr Yu Leon Marinus. The one I told you about when you visited. He’s at Columbia University so he shouldn’t be far away from … It’s the Chelsea Hotel, you say?’

‘Yes. It’s famous.’

‘I’ll ask him to visit you. Urgently.’

Jasper hears a knock-knock , knock-knock , knock-knock … Like sarcastic applause. ‘Thank you.’ He hangs up and leaves Levon’s room. His manager tries to block his way. ‘What’s going on?’

Jasper goes back to Room 777 to a mock death-march of Knock , knock , knock. He takes two benzodiazepines, turns off the lamp and sinks into a chemical limbo, where …

A cicada nymph, bulbous and blind, is sucking sap from a tree root. It emerges from the soil into a raucous forest. In tiny increments the grub climbs a sapling growing in the shadow of a giant cedar. Under a twig the grub clings until, from a diaphanous carapace, a shiny black cicada hatches. The insect unfolds its gummy wings to dry them in the sun. Then … up, up, up it flies through criss-crossed, sun-streaked, dark-splotched air; over a roof of a cloister where pregnant women sweep the walkway; over the steep roofs of Zeeland; over Chetwynd Mews; over the Brooklyn Bridge, and down, down, through a gap in the sash window of Room 777 in the Chelsea Hotel where Jasper lies unconscious. A black aperture has opened between his eyebrows. The cicada lands on Jasper’s forehead, tucks in its wings, and enters the hole.

Knock-knock. Jasper wakes up. Knock Knock is awake and present. He may as well be sitting on the chair in the corner, in person. Perhaps he is. Jasper’s watch says 7.12 a.m. He goes to the bathroom and takes three Queludrins. Only nine left.

Dr Galavazi always told Jasper that speaking to Knock Knock feeds and fortifies his psychosis, and urged him not to do so. Jasper decides that prohibition is now pointless. Back in the bedroom, he draws a Formaggio-style alphabet grid. ‘You know how this works. Will you speak to me?’

The noise of early traffic simmered seven floors below.

No knocks, but a voice: If I choose to, de Zoet, I shall.

Jasper gasps. The voice is as clear as the Mongolian’s.