Дэвид Митчелл - Utopia Avenue

‘Sure. But reality creeps in wherever you live, however pretty the flowers are, however blue the sky, however great the parties. The only people who actually live in dreams are people in comas.’

The sound of wind chimes floats up the hill.

‘Nice try, but I still don’t want to go back,’ says Dean.

‘That’s what you said in Amsterdam, I recall.’

‘Yeah, but I was high in Amsterdam.’

‘And that’s a Dunhill you’re smoking, is it?’

Night blooms scent the breeze.

‘Thanks,’ says Elf. ‘For earlier. At the TV studio.’

‘Yer thanking me? For getting us barred from networks?’

‘Thorn was a creep. You stood up for me. Women are usually told to get a sense of humour or to take it as a compliment.’

‘Thanks for braining him with a guitar,’ says Dean. ‘Thanks for saving my arse in “Roll Away The Stone”.’

‘Any time. Though don’t do cocaine before a show again.’

Dean winces. ‘Bloody idiot. I didn’t even do it for a reason. At least Doug’s a proper addict. I just thought, Yeah, why not? ’

‘Don’t beat yourself up about it. All four of us are handling new stuff. Everything’s happening so quickly.’

They hear owls.

‘Seen Jasper or Mecca recently?’ asks Dean.

‘They slipped off. We’ll see them back at the house. Or, possibly, hear them.’

‘Slander. I can vouch that Jasper is no shrieker.’

Elf makes an ugh face. ‘What about Griff?’

‘Griff is a shrieker. I needed ear-plugs at the Chelsea.’

Elf’s ugh becomes a glurggheugh . ‘All I was asking is, has he hooked up with—’

‘Yeah, I know. I saw him go into one o’ the Wigwams of Love and he was not alone, but to say any more would be indiscreet.’ Dean tokes on his reefer. ‘Smash a guitar on my head if I’m a Mr Stoner crossing a line, Elf, but … you and Luisa.’

Elf doesn’t reply for a while. ‘Ye-es?’

Can’t backtrack now. ‘She’s got a heart o’ gold, she’s sharp as a whip, and if I’ve read the clues right … good on yer.’

Elf takes Dean’s reefer from his fingers. ‘What clues?’

‘Well … partly the way Levon was protective of yer both in New York. Mostly, it’s the way yer light up when she walks in. Plus … yer ain’t denied it yet.’

Elf takes a long drag on the reefer. ‘I won’t deny it. I assert it.’ She gives Dean a defiant smile. ‘But this is personal, Dean. Not just to me but to Luisa, too. So … I’m trusting you.’

‘I like it when yer trust me. Brings out the best in me.’

‘Have Jasper and Griff said anything?’

‘No. Who knows what Jasper knows? I doubt he’ll bat an eyelid. Not after ten years at an all-boys boarding school. Same with Griff. He’s got no problem with Levon. Touring jazzers are a broad-minded tribe, I’ve found. I ’xpect he’ll just be, “Fine, so Elf was into Bruce, now it’s Luisa, right, got it … Where d’yer want that drum-fill again?” So is Luisa yer first …’ Dean can’t quite say it, yet.

‘“Girlfriend” could be the word you’re after.’

Dean smiles a little. ‘I reckon it is.’

Elf smiles a little. ‘She is, yes. It’s … wonderful. Love, though, eh? They sure as Billy-O don’t give you a map.’

The wind stirs the trillion leaves and needles of Laurel Canyon. The night is all blues, indigos and blacks, except for the pale yellows around the lamps and streetlights. Dean thinks of an ocean shelf, dropping away. ‘I wish I could give yer directions,’ he says a little later, ‘but I’m a stranger here myself.’

Eight Of Cups

Dean balances on the footboard of the double-bed, stretches his arms out and falls, flumph ing onto a snowy eiderdown. He inhales the smell of soap powder … and thinks of a launderette in North London. He turns onto his back. A space-age light fitting, a huge TV housed in its own cabinet, with doors, an abstract print in its aluminium frame. It’s everything his old bedsit at Mrs Nevitt’s wasn’t. The British upper classes, Dean thinks, favour ugly furniture from olden times, Rolls-Royces, grouse-shooting, inbreeding and an accent like the Queen’s. Wealthy Americans appear to be content with just being rich, and feel less need to rub the noses of the poor in their money. Dean checks Allen Klein’s card is still safe in his wallet. A visa, a ticket, an insurance policy. He hasn’t told the others about Jeb Malone’s overture at Cass’s party. It’s a hard subject to broach. Sorry ’ n ’ all that, but a music mogul thinks I’m the real star and he’s offering a quarter of a million dollars. The thought of the money still makes his heart quiver. I could pay the blackmailers in London as easy as buying a pack et o ’ cigarettes. He still hasn’t heard back from Rod Dempsey. Which could be good news, or bad, or neither …

Dean goes to the window. New York was vertical; Los Angeles was a spillage; San Francisco dips, rises, levels out, dips, rises and falls sharply to the bay. Crazy gradients are the price of keeping to the grid pattern. The big telephone emits one long loud rrrrrringggggg , not the jumpy rrring-ringgg … rrring-ringgg like at home. His heart pumping, Dean picks up the receiver. ‘Hello?’

A woman speaks: ‘Hello, Mr Moss, hotel switchboard here. We have a call from London for you. A Mr Ted Silver …

‘Uh, yeah. Put him through, please.’

‘Hold the line one moment, sir.’

Click; scratch; clunk. ‘Dean, my boy, can you hear me?’

‘Loud and clear, Mr Silver.’

‘Splendid, splendid. How’s America treating you?’

Who gives a shit? ‘Are the results of the paternity test through?’

‘They are indeed. The verdict is “Inconclusive”. Your blood group is O. So is Miss Craddock’s and so is her son’s. According to the laws that govern these things, you might be the daddy, as might any other man with the blood group O. Which, I am told, constitutes eighty-five per cent of the British population, give or take. So there you have it.’

Fat lot o’ bloody use that was . ‘What now?’

‘For now, dear boy, enjoy the States, make hay while the sun shines, and we’ll discuss your next move back in Blighty …’

At £15 an hour. ‘Okay, Mr Silver.’

‘Chin up, my boy. This, too, shall pass.’

‘Not if I’m that baby’s father, it won’t.’

‘The fact may not, but the anguish it provokes in your breast shall. I guarantee it. Is today the big festival?’

‘Yeah. Just flew in from Los Angeles, and a car’s coming to pick us up in a bit. Then we’re recording tomorrow, ditto Tuesday, back on Wednesday.’

‘Until Thursday or Friday, then. Good luck and bon voyage .’ Ted Silver hangs up and the line goes prrrrrrrrr …

Dean hangs up. So I am a dad, I’m not a d ad, and I’m a possible dad, all at once. He’d like to tell Elf the non-news, but she’ll be unpacking and may need some girl time. He unpacks. He takes his Martin from its case, tunes it to DADF#AD with the capo on the fourth fret and strums a tune he’s been working on. This time the music’s arrived first, but what Elf said the other day about uncharted waters being where you grow has lodged in his head. What rhymes with ‘waters’? Daughters … Maybe … Mortars … Definitely not … There’s a knock at his door.

It’s Levon. ‘We’re pushed for time, so order yourself a bite of lunch on room service.’

‘Room service? Seriously?’