Дэвид Митчелл - Utopia Avenue

The wall in his mind is shattered, and falls away.

Knock Knock bursts out, flooding his brain.

Jasper’s sentience dims to near zero.

Presence reverts to Absence.

What’s Inside What’s Inside

Nine floors below, a yellow cab prowls West 23rd Street by the Chelsea Hotel, looking for a fare. Elf considers how the metaphor of life as a journey underplays how the traveller herself is changed by the road, by misadventures, by what’s inside. By what’s inside what’s inside. Luisa’s arms encircle her waist and reach up to her seraphinite pendant. She smells of soap. She kisses Elf’s neck. No male stubble to pretend to not mind as it scrubs me raw . Bruce was a hedgehog. A plagiarising hedgehog. It doesn’t matter. If he hadn’t left, I wouldn’t have her. I wouldn’t have this. Disaster is rebirth, seen from the front. Rebirth is disaster, seen from behind. ‘You’re that princess,’ says Luisa. ‘The one in the tower. Rapunzel.’

‘A New York Rapunzel’s hair wouldn’t reach the pavements.’

‘A New York Rapunzel would have a specially made wig.’ Luisa coils Elf’s hair around her thumb and whispers in her ear, ‘ Rapunzel, Rapunzel, deja caer tu cabello .’

‘I’m defenceless when you speak Spanish.’

‘Is that so? In that case …’ Luisa whispers in Elf’s ear. ‘ Voy a soplar y puff y volar su casa hacia abajo .’

Elf muffles a giggle. ‘What’s that?’

‘I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your house down.’

‘You did that in London.’ Elf plants a kiss on Luisa’s thumb. ‘“ O, wonder! How many goodly creatures are there here! How beauteous womankind is! O brave new world, That has such people in’t! ”’

‘Which one’s that?’

‘ The Tempest. Tweaked. My sister’s playing Miranda and we went through her lines a few days ago.’

The Chelsea Hotel’s door-stepping drug-pusher’s voice travels up to the ninth floor, very faintly. ‘Hey! You want gear? I got gear …’

‘You know how,’ says Elf, ‘when you go abroad, you learn more about where you’re from than where you’re visiting?’

‘Definitely.’

‘You, us, this …’

‘“Mad, passionate affair”.’

‘Thank you – this mad, passionate affair is “Abroad”. I look back at my old self, before I met you, and I understand her better than I did when I was her.’

‘And what have you gleaned, here where the Wild Dykes be?’

‘Labels.’

‘Labels?’

‘Labels. I stuck them on everything. “Good”. “Bad”. “Right”. “Wrong”. “Square”. “Hip”. “Queer”. “Normal”. “Friend”. “Enemy”. “Success”. “Failure”. They’re easy to use. They save you the bother of thinking. Those labels stay stuck. They proliferate. They become a habit. Soon, they’re covering everything, and everybody, up. You start thinking reality is the labels. Simple labels, written in permanent marker. The trouble is, reality’s the opposite. Reality is nuanced, paradoxical, shifting. It’s difficult. It’s many things at once. That’s why we’re so crummy at it. People harp on about freedom. All the time. It’s everywhere. There are riots and wars about what freedom is and who it’s for. But the Queen of Freedoms is this: to be free of labels. Here endeth today’s lesson. You’re giving me a funny look.’

Luisa stroked the pendant, once hers, now Elf’s. ‘I was just mentally putting a label on you, that’s all.’

‘What does it say?’

‘“Elf for President”.’

They hear a knock-knock on the outer door.

Luisa looks at Elf. ‘Expecting a visitor?’

‘At this hour? God, no.’

Knock-knock. Knock-knock.

‘Some stray suitor from the party?’ guesses Luisa. ‘Perhaps with the name “LEONARD” stitched onto his mittens?’

Knock-knock. Knock-knock. Knock-knock.

‘Someone who knows I’m here,’ says Elf. ‘Levon?’

‘Answer, then, but look through the eyehole first …’

The fish-eye lens shows Levon, in his pyjamas and dressing-gown. His frowning forehead is hugely magnified.

Elf whispers to her lover, ‘Levon.’

Luisa whispers back: ‘Shall I hide?’

Elf hesitates. Griff and Dean knew Luisa was going to sleep in Elf’s room; just not in Elf’s bed. ‘Put a blanket and pillow on the sofa.’

Luisa nods and goes back into the bedroom. Elf opens up. The corridor is margarine yellow.

‘Sorry to come knocking at this hour.’

‘You wouldn’t be if it wasn’t urgent.’

Levon looks around. ‘It’s Jasper. He’s acting weird.’

‘How can you tell?’

‘He just came to my room and insisted that I have the switchboard put a call through to the Netherlands. I said “What for?” He said it was medical. I pointed out how early it is in Europe. He threatened not to play at the Ghepardo if I didn’t do as he said.’

Elf’s shocked. ‘Jasper said that?’

‘Exactly. So I wanted to ask if he went with you to the party on the roof after all – and if he did any.’

Elf shakes her head. ‘He went to his room and he never showed up. I meant to go and check up on him, but it got late, and I thought, Let him sleep the flight off. Did you place the call to Holland?’

‘I had no choice. Jasper told me to wait outside. I did what any diligent manager would, but he spoke Dutch. The name “Galavazi” cropped up a few times. Ring any bells?’

Elf shakes her head. ‘Sounds more Italian than Dutch.’

‘What about “Quallydin” or “Quellydrone”?’

‘Queludrin?’

‘Could’ve been.’

‘It’s medication. Jasper took it on the flight. For nerves. A kind of sedative, I guess. How long did the call last?’

‘Two or three minutes. After he hung up I asked him what the story was, but he ignored me. I sat in the dark for a few minutes, then decided to come see if you could shed a little light.’

‘I wish I could. We could go and knock on his door, but if Jasper doesn’t want to discuss something, he won’t. All I can suggest is to trust in a night’s sleep.’

Levon rubs his tired face. ‘Guess so. Sorry for dumping this on you at this hour. Breakfast at nine. Tomorrow’s a busy day.’

A Chelsea morning, with sun through yellow curtains and a rainbow on the wall. The clock says 6.59. A big day ahead. The barometer’s needle points to ‘G’ in CHANGEABLE. Elf lies in bed and listens to the buzz of traffic on 23rd Street. A kind of language. Luisa, asleep, breathes in slow, deep rhythms. Her bare, slung hand rests on Elf’s exposed midriff. Elf likes the contrast between their skin tones. It’s erotic. Luisa smells of toast and thyme. Bruce smelt of Cheddar and beer. Angus of salt and vinegar crisps. Luisa stirs, stretching like a young, superbly toned cat, yawns, and surrenders to sleep again. To think that someone wanted her dead and she’s just shrugged it off, like I might shrug off a shitty review. Elf remembers the Jasper Question. It’s too early to go and wake him up now. He’ll be asleep. He’ll be all right. It’s the flight. It’s the success. It’s happened so quickly. He’s bound to need a period of adjustment. Wanting to speak to a doctor in Holland isn’t so very weird. That’s where his clinic was. Perhaps Levon cornered him into threatening not to play … Elf thinks of other explanations for Jasper’s ultimatum until sleep pulls her under by her ankles …

… and suddenly they’re running late. Luisa dresses in jeans, a T-shirt and jacket. She kisses Elf while Elf’s putting on her makeup, promises to be at the Ghepardo later, and leaves for the Spyglass office after a ten-day absence. Ten minutes later, Elf finds Levon downstairs in the El Quijote restaurant reading the New Yorker and eating a glazed bread doughnut. Before Elf sits down, he asks, ‘Should we go and see if Jasper’s up yet?’