Дэвид Митчелл - Utopia Avenue

Take that card out , Dean tells himself, and rip it up .

Dean looks around to check nobody saw. ‘I’m already in a band. I already have a deal. I already have a manager.’

‘And Levon is a very nice guy. Very Canadian. But business is a jungle, and you need carnivores, not nice guys. Mr Klein could close you a deal for two solo records worth a quarter of a million dollars. Not “in theory”. No ifs, no buts. Now.’

The party sound recedes, leaving only the number, which Dean can’t quite believe. ‘Did you just say …’

‘One quarter of a million dollars. A life-altering sum. Think about it. Mr Klein will be expecting your call. Enjoy the party.’ Jeb Malone vanishes in a puff of joint smoke.

Dean heads for the lookout deck at the end of the garden. A quarter of a million dollars. On a nearby roof, cats screech songs of feline lust. ‘Dean Moss,’ says a woman, who might have slid off an Egyptian vase. Kohled eyes, linen shift, stern black hair. ‘I’m Callista, and I have an unusual passion. Maybe you’ve heard of me.’

‘Or maybe I haven’t.’ Dean drinks from his bottle of beer.

‘I take plaster casts of the penises of rock stars.’

Most of Dean’s beer exits via his nostrils.

‘I’ve done Jimi Hendrix,’ Callista recounts, ‘Noel Redding, Eric Burdon, but his broke in two. The cast, I mean. Not the penis.’

She’s serious. ‘Why?’

‘If the penis droops in mid-session, a crack can appear.’

‘No, I mean why d’yer do plaster casts o’ knobs?’

‘A girl needs a hobby. It’ll only take an hour, and my friend comes along to plate you, so don’t worry about stage fright.’

‘Try Griff. A drummer’ll do a lot for free plating.’

‘There’s only one man in Utopia Avenue I really want …’

‘Good luck with yer collection, Callista.’

‘Booo- rrr ing.’ Plaster-caster Callista exits the scene.

Dean continues his journey over to the lookout deck.

‘Quite a show you guys put on,’ says a face with a horseshoe moustache. He looks like a Mexican bandit who gets shot first in a Spaghetti Western. ‘“Look Who It Isn’t” kinda oiled my gun.’

‘Jesus bloody Christ. Yer Frank bloody Zappa.’

‘On my better days I am,’ says Frank Zappa.

Dean shakes his hand. ‘Janis Joplin put me on to We’re Only In It For the Money . It’s indescribable. It’s—’

‘I’ll take “indescribable”. Like Charles Mingus says, writing about music is like dancing about architecture.’

A woman nestles into Frank Zappa’s side. She’s holding a glass of milk. ‘Hi, I’m Gail. The dreaded wife. We dig your band.’

Mr Zappa smiles at Mrs Zappa with pride and affection.

‘Nice to meet yer.’ He tokes on his reefer. ‘Care for a puff?’

‘We’re abstainers,’ says Frank. ‘The world is majestic enough.’

Frank Zappa doesn’t do drugs? ‘That’s cool. So, Frank, how’d yer get MGM to release the least commercial LP ever made?’

‘My guile and MGM’s ignorance. If you think my stuff’s uncommercial, try Stravinsky. Try Halim El-Dabh. Or try braining Randy Thorn with a guitar on live TV. Pure performance art.’

‘That was just … an unplanned accident,’ says Dean.

‘Accidents are often art’s best bits,’ remarks Frank.

‘It’ll buy you an authenticity that money can’t,’ says Gail. ‘Utopia Avenue are now the Anti-Monkees.’

A diver belly-flops into the pool. Onlookers go, ‘ Woooooo! ’

‘So what do you think of the place?’ asks Frank.

‘Laurel Canyon? It’s like the Garden of Eden.’

‘The Garden of Eden’s no Paradise,’ says Frank.

‘I thought it was the original Paradise,’ says Dean.

‘It’s the original horror show. God creates Eden and puts a naked man and a naked woman in charge. “All this is yours,” His Omniscience says, “but whatever you do, DON’T eat this apple dangling HERE on the Tree of Knowledge, or BAD SHIT will go down.” Why not go the whole hog and hang an EAT ME sign on it? Adam and Eve deserve medals for holding out so long. God has to crack them with the old phallic talking-snake trick. So they eat the knowledge – as God intended all along – and get punished with menstruation, work and corduroy pants. The carnivores turn on the herbivores and the soil of Eden is soaked in blood. See? The original horror show.’

Dean frowns. ‘What’re yer saying, Frank? That Laurel Canyon’s a bloodbath waiting to happen?’

‘I’m saying,’ replies Frank, ‘that if you ever think, I’ve found Paradise, you are not in possession of the facts. Don’t be dazzled by peacocks either. They’re vain, ornery sons-of-bitches who shit like it’s going out of style.’

Dean stands on the lookout deck at the end of the garden, smoking Jeb Malone’s second joint, imagining himself on the prow of a ship. Insects trill by the million. Stars run rampant by the billion. If, just if, in the future, or a next-door universe where Utopia Avenue is over, and I’m a free agent, and I call Allen Klein and if, if , I got that quarter-million … which one o’ them houses’d I fancy? He settles on a big house three properties over. It’s all arches and terracotta with giant ferns. A couple are enjoying a late hot tub under the half-moon and stars. Dean imagines he’s watching himself and Tiffany. Tiffany’s kids don’t exist in this universe. There’s a garage for Dean’s Triumph Spitfire, which he’d have shipped over, naturally, and space for Nan Moss and Bill, and Ray and his family to come and stay … And what about Harry Moffat? I don’t know. I still don’t know. Some things are so much easier not to think about – and America is an endless, world-class distraction, if nothing else. Elf joins him at the rail. ‘Which house are you planning to splurge your ill-gotten gains on, then?’

‘That one.’ He points. ‘With the hot tub.’

‘All mod cons. Outstanding views. Nice choice.’

‘Hell of a party. Met any eligible bachelors?’

‘Oh, not especially. Met any eligible ladies of the canyon?’

‘A woman just offered to make a plaster-cast of my knob.’

Elf checks that he’s serious – and shrieks with laughter. Dean’s happy that she’s happy. When she’s able to speak, Elf asks, ‘What did you say?’

‘Thanks but no thanks.’

‘Why? You could’ve gone into mass production. Whole warehouses stuffed to the gills with “The Dean Machine”. Batteries not included.’

Dean snorts out a laugh. ‘Hey, I just met Frank Zappa. He gave me a short sermon about why Laurel Canyon isn’t Paradise.’

‘Clever old Frank,’ says Elf. ‘I was thinking how it’s the Land of the Lotus Eaters.’

She can’t mean the car. ‘Go on, then, Prof Holloway. Lotus Eaters?’

‘It’s from The Odyssey . Odysseus spies land and rows ashore with some of his men. He sends three off to forage. They meet a tribe of hippies called the Lotus Eaters who greet them with love and peace and say, “Hey, guys, try this lotus stuff, you’ll love it.” Love it they do. They forget about getting home. They forget who they are. All they want is more lotus. Odysseus drags them back to the boat and orders the others to row like hell. The three “wept bitter tears as the oars smote the grey sea”.’

‘Who wouldn’t? Saying goodbye to all that free dope.’

‘Odysseus gave them their lives back. Lotus Eaters don’t create anything. Or love. Or live. They’re kind of the living dead.’

‘Who’s dead here? Cass isn’t. Joni ’n’ Graham aren’t. Zappa isn’t. They write, record, go on tour. Have careers.’