Дэвид Митчелл - Utopia Avenue

The telescope man clicks his fingers. Scrit-scrit . Jasper’s walking along a street. He comes to his aunt’s boarding house in Lyme Regis. His wheelchair-bound uncle tells him, ‘You left us for a better life, remember? Piss off!’

Click. Scrit-scrit. Jasper passes Swaffham House at Bishop’s Ely school. The principal stands in the doorway like a bouncer. ‘Move on, move on, nothing for you here.’

Click. Scrit-scrit. The Duke of Argyll on Great Windmill Street. Jasper peers in through the engraved glass. Elf, Dean, Griff, himself and Mecca are sitting at a table. ‘Half of my friends say “The Way Out” sounds like a suicide textbook,’ explains Elf. ‘The other half say, it’s like a hippie going, “ Hey, way out, man! ” If we were dreaming up a name now, from scratch, what would we choose?’ They all look at Jasper’s eye, including the other Jasper inside.

Click. Scrit-scrit. Dream-lit snow, or swirling blossom, or filigree moths obscure Jasper’s vision. He’s lost in a Soho even more labyrinthine than the real one. He looks for a sign. It emerges slowly, as obscurity sharpens into clarity. A street-sign, in London street-sign font, reading ‘UTOPIA AVENUE’. Click. Scrit-scrit …

Letters spell P-E-N-T-A-X, inches from his face. Click . The camera is wound on – scrit-scrit . Mecca’s wearing a cream Aran jumper that falls to her knees. She lines up another shot. Click . Scrit-scrit. Above her is a skylight of soiled sky. Crows tumble like socks in a drier. What else? A blanket. Crusty tissues. An electric fire. A rug. Jasper’s clothes. Black and white photographs, dozens of them, pinned to the wall. Clouds in puddles, certain slants of light, commuters, tramps, dogs, graffiti, snow blowing in through broken windows, lovers in doorways, semi-legible gravestones and whatever figments of London caught Mecca’s eye and made her think, I want to save you . Click . Scrit-scrit.

She lowers her Pentax and sits cross-legged. ‘Morning.’

‘I see you start work early.’

‘Your eyes were …’ she fails to find the right word ‘… moving like crazy under your eyelids. Were you dreaming?’

‘Yes, I was.’

‘Maybe I’ll arrange you as a series: “ De Zoet, Asleep; De Zoet, Waking. ” Or perhaps I call it “ Paradise Lost ”.’ She pulls on navy stockings. ‘Breakfast is downstairs.’ She goes.

Jasper wonders if he and Mecca are still lovers, or if last night was their first and last time. He takes his time to dress, and spends a few minutes studying Mecca’s photography.

She’s eating a bowl of Weetabix in a staff kitchen and leafing through a fashion magazine. An electric kettle groans and wheezes. Jasper peers through the blinds onto a Chelsea backstreet. Gusts of wind herd dead leaves, shake a willow tree and wrench a priest’s umbrella inside out. Across the kitchen is a waist-high balcony. Jasper walks over and looks down at a large studio with an array of drapes, sets, lights and tripods. A shot has been set up with hay bales and a couple of acoustic guitars as props. Jasper repeats what Dean said on entering the Chetwynd Mews flat: ‘Pretty cool digs.’

Mecca asks, ‘What is “digs”?’

‘Accommodation. A flat, or a bedsit.’

‘Why “digs”? Like, with a spade? Why?’

‘I’ve no idea. I didn’t design English.’

Mecca makes a face that Jasper can’t read. ‘Monday to Saturday, my boss Mike is here, with models, staff and so on. I do donkey work – I help with shoots, much stuff. My “digs” is free and Mike gives me film and the darkroom.’

‘Your photographs are special.’

‘Thank you. I’m still learning . ’

‘There’s a series of shots of a picket line.’

‘Dockworkers on strike in the East End.’

‘How did you persuade them to pose for you?’

‘I just explain, “Hi, I am a photographer from Germany, please can I shoot you?” A few say, “Piss off.” One say, “Take a picture of my willy, little Miss Hitler.” Most say, “Okay.” To have your photo taken is to be told, “ You exist. ”’

‘It’s as if they’re there,’ Jasper speaks aloud, ‘staring at the viewer, working out if you’re an enemy or not. Yet, really, they’re just chemical reactions on paper. Photography’s a strange illusion.’

‘On Thursday, at Heinz’s digs, you played a Spanish song.’

The kettle’s rumbling now. ‘“Asturias” by Isaac Albéniz.’

‘That. It gave me Gänsehaut … goosebumps, you say?’

‘We do.’ The boiled kettle clicks off.

‘Music is vibrations in the air, only. Why do these vibrations create physical responses? It’s a mystery to me.’

‘ How music works – the theory, the practice – is learnable.’ Jasper prises the lid off the coffee. ‘ Why it works, God only knows. Maybe not even God.’

‘So, photography is same. Art is paradox. It is no sense but it is sense. That coffee tastes of mouse-shit. Tea is better.’

Jasper makes a pot of tea and brings it to the table.

‘Where are you going after here?’ asks Mecca.

‘I’ve got band rehearsal at two. Back in Soho.’

‘Are you good, your band?’

‘I think we’re getting there.’ Jasper blows on his tea. ‘We only started playing together last month, so we’re still finding our sound. Levon wants us to perfect a ten-song set before we start gigging. He says he wants us springing fully formed from the brow of Zeus.’

Mecca chews a spoonful of Weetabix.

‘It’s your last day in England, so maybe you have lots of goodbyes to make. But if you’re free, tag along.’

Mecca’s half-smile must mean something. ‘Another date?’

Jasper worries he’s got it wrong: ‘If it’s not too forward.’

‘“Forward”?’ Possibly Mecca is amused. ‘We just had sex. It’s a little late to be forward now.’

‘Sorry. I never know the rules. Especially with women.’

‘Is it only two days and three nights ago that we met?’

‘Why?’

Mecca blows on her tea. ‘It feels much longer.’

Two days and three nights ago, Heinz Formaggio opened the door of a flat in an opulent crescent off Regent’s Park. He wore a lounge suit, a tie embroidered with algebraic equations, and stern glasses. ‘De Zoet!’ He gave his old schoolfriend a hug that Jasper endured. ‘I knew it was you. Most callers do a long buzz – bzzzzzzzzz – but you did a buzz-biddley-buzz-buzz, buzz-buzz . My God, look at your hair! It’s longer than my sister’s.’

‘Your hairline’s rising,’ said Jasper. ‘You’re chubbier.’

‘Still a master of tact. You’re right about my waistline, alas. Oxbridge fellows, I’m discovering, eat like kings.’ Party chatter and John Coltrane’s ‘My Favourite Things’ spilled into the corridor. Formaggio put his door on the latch and slipped out. ‘Before we go in, how are you?’

‘I had a cold in November, a little psoriasis on my elbow.’

‘I’m asking about Knock Knock.’

Jasper hesitated. He hadn’t dared voice his suspicion to anyone in the band. ‘I think he’s coming back.’

Formaggio stared. ‘Why do you think so?’

‘I hear him. Or I think I do.’

‘The knocking? Like before?’

‘It’s still faint, so I can’t be sure. But … I think so.’

‘Have you been in touch with Dr Galavazi?’

Jasper acted a headshake. ‘He’s retired now.’

Laughter rippled out of Formaggio’s flat. ‘Do you have any of that medicine ready, in case you need it?’

‘No.’ Jasper’s gaze wandered down the curving corridor of the crescent building where Formaggio’s uncle had his London pied-à-terre. There was an unpleasant number of big mirrors. ‘I’d need a referral to a psychiatrist. I’m worried about where a consultation may lead. If I get locked up here, I’ve got nobody to get me out.’