Дэвид Митчелл - Utopia Avenue

‘Let him sleep in a little. Beauty sleep …’

‘After breakfast, then. Ever had one of these?’ He holds up his bread. ‘It’s a bagel. Have one …’ Elf agrees, and in addition orders coffee and a grapefruit. American grapefruit are pink, not yellow. Dean and Griff arrive and order more things they’ve never heard of: grits, hash browns, avocados and eggs over-easy. At 9.40 a.m., Levon and Elf go to Reception to ask Stanley to call Jasper’s room. He goes to the switchboard in the back. A minute later Stanley returns, shaking his head. ‘No reply.’

Elf and Levon look at each other. ‘We’ve got a cab coming at a quarter after ten,’ Levon tells the manager. ‘Can I take a key and open up his room? I have to get him out of bed.’

‘I’ll come,’ replies Stanley. ‘It’s hotel policy.’ They go to the elevators. ‘It’ll be with us in a jiffy.’

A minute later, they are still waiting.

‘Literally, any second now,’ says Stanley.

Two minutes later, Levon takes the stairs. Elf follows him. Stanley follows her. ‘People don’t die in the Chelsea Hotel,’ insists the hotelier. ‘And anyway, Jasper’s in the luckiest room in the building …’

‘777’ – speckled gold-paint numbers screwed onto walnut veneer. Elf knocks and telepathically orders Jasper to appear at the door, squinting at them through his messed-up red hair and a fog of jet-lag and sleeping pills. Nobody replies.

Levon knocks harder. ‘Jasper?’

The only reply is a feeble echo: Jasper?

Elf swats away images of their guitarist in the bath with his veins opened up. She bangs on the door. ‘Jasper!’

A short man in a morning jacket with rouged cheeks approaches. His female companion towers over him in a ball-gown. They say, ‘Good morning, Stanley.’ Her voice is bass: his, alto.

‘Mr and Mrs Blancheflower,’ says Stanley. ‘We’re well, I trust?’

‘Quite well, thank you,’ says Mrs Blancheflower.

‘Any trouble?’ Mr Blancheflower nods at the door. ‘Has a guest checked out before checking out?’

Stanley smiles as if the question can’t possibly be serious. ‘What a question, Mr Blancheflower! This is the Chelsea.’

The couple exchange a sad smile at the follies of the world, then continue their journey down the stairs. When the Blancheflowers are out of eyeshot, Stanley puts the key in the door. ‘I’ll go in first,’ says Levon. Something makes Elf touch his arm and insist, ‘No.’ She’s afraid. She goes in. ‘Jasper?’

No reply. The bathroom, off to the right, is empty – as is the bath. Thank God. Sheets of newspaper are taped over the mirror. A bad sign. ‘What’s that about?’ asks Stanley.

‘He just hates reflections.’ Elf steels herself to enter the bedroom, but Jasper’s dead body is not lying on the bed, or next to it, or anywhere. ‘Best pillowcases I ever bought, those,’ says Stanley. ‘From a Greek market over in Brooklyn.’

Elf draws apart the curtains and slides open the balcony door. There’s nobody on the balcony. All is well on the street below.

‘What did I tell ya?’ asks Stanley. ‘He’s gone for a stroll, is all. It’s a beautiful morning in New York City. He’ll be back any minute.’

‘All aboard, all aboard, Locomotive 97.8FM,’ says the DJ. ‘I am Bat Segundo bringing you all the best songs from Great to Late. It’s coming up to five after three and that was “Roll Away The Stone”, the new single by my old friends from across the pond, Utopia Avenue. Three-quarters of the band are here aboard the Bat Train to discuss their way-out new album Stuff of Life – but, first, introductions are in order.’ Bat nods at Elf first.

‘Hello, New York,’ Elf says, into her mic. ‘I’m Elf Holloway, I play keyboards and sing with the band, and’ – I’m so worried about our missing guitarist, I could puke – ‘we know Bat from his disc jockey days in England where he was the first DJ on the planet to play us. Enough about me. Over to Dean.’ Elf grimaces on the inside. I sounded like an idiot.

‘Afternoon, all. I’m Dean Moss, I play bass, sing and write. That last one was one o’ mine, so I hope yer dug it. We think the sun shines out of all the Bat-holes. Griff?’

‘I’m Griff the ’umble drummer. For those of you trying to picture me, imagine Paul Newman and Rock Hudson’s love child.’

‘Missing,’ continues the Bat, ‘is the fourth Utopian, Jacob de – sorry, I mean, Jasper de Zoet – I just changed his name – Jasper, who plays guitar and will be back for tonight’s show at the Ghepardo on 53rd Street, starting nine p.m., a few tickets still available so get – on – down.’

I hope to hell he will be back , thinks Elf.

‘So tell us, Elf, Dean, Griff,’ says Bat. ‘As citizens of one great city, what are your first impressions of our great city? In one word.’

‘“Sandwiches”,’ says Griff. ‘Back home, it’s ham, egg or cheese. Here, there’s hundreds of breads, meats, cheeses, pickles, dressings. I didn’t know where to start at the deli. I had to order by pointing at a customer’s sandwich and saying, “One of them.”’

‘My word for New York is “more”,’ says Dean. ‘More buildings, more height, more noise, more beggars, more music, more neon, more races. More hustle, bustle, winners, losers. More more.’

‘More shrinks,’ offers Bat. ‘More rats. Elf?’

‘I can’t sum up the city in a single word,’ says Elf, ‘but if New York was a sentence, it would be “ Stay out of my hair, and I’ll stay out of yours. ” London would be, “ And who do you think you are? ”’

‘I could personify cities all day,’ says the DJ. ‘But let’s talk music. Congratulations on busting the Top Thirty with “Roll Away the Stone” – a song you wrote, Dean, in testing circumstances?’

‘I did, Bat, yeah. Basically, the Italian police planted drugs on me and slung me into prison for a week. “Roll Away the Stone” came out o’ that. I was completely exonerated I hasten to add.’

‘Corrupt cops?’ Bat acts astonished. ‘Thank God we have none of them in New York City. And thank God that justice prevailed because Stuff of Life , the album you recorded after your release, is a supernova . Now I loved your debut – Paradise is the Road to Paradise – but Stuff of Life is up a gear. The writing’s so assured. The sonic palette’s wider. You got a harpsichord on “Sound Mind”. String section on “The Hook”. Sitar on “Look Who It Isn’t”. Lyrically, it’s more adventurous. So I gotta ask: what in God’s name have you been putting on your cornflakes?’

‘Big Brother ’n’ the Holding Company,’ says Griff.

‘ Odessey and Oracle by the Zombies,’ says Elf.

‘The Band’s Music from Big Pink,’ says Dean. ‘Yer hear a record that good, yer think, Shi–damn, we’ve got to up our game .’

‘Our friend Eno talks about “The Scenius”,’ says Elf. ‘The genius of the scene. Art’s made by artists, but artists are enabled by a scene – non- artistic factors. Buyers, sellers, materials, patrons, technology, places to mingle and swap ideas. You see the fruits of scenius in Medici Florence. The Dutch Golden Age. New York in the twenties. Hollywood. Right now, the scenius of London, and Soho, is pretty perfect. We’ve the venues, studios with multi-track recorders, the radio stations, the music papers and magazines … even cafés where session players hang out. Even a few managers who won’t rip you off.’ Through the studio glass, Levon blows Elf a kiss. ‘We made our album, sure. But it emerged from the scenius.’