Дэвид Митчелл - Utopia Avenue

‘Say something, our Deano?’ asks Griff.

‘Nah. Just … working on lyrics.’

Griff lights a cigarette. ‘As you were.’

At the very least, Dean is going to have to tell Levon and Jasper that the Covent Garden flat has fallen through and offer a version of why. I’ll have to call Tiffany, too. Even if Dempsey was bluffing, she should be taking sensible precautions. It is not a conversation Dean is looking forward to. He asks for a drag of Griff’s cigarette. He wishes it was a joint, but after the Troubadour, he’s promised himself to abstain from drugs before a show. The van emerges from the tunnel onto the eastern section of the bridge, where all eight west- and eastbound lanes are open to the sky. The cables are as thick as trees. The suspension towers could be parts of a galactic cruiser.

The entirety is steel, mighty, permanent, real …

… and was once just a dream in somebody’s head.

The Camper turns off the freeway at a sign for Knowland Park. Further down the slip road, a sign reads, ‘GOLDEN STATE INTERNATIONAL POP FESTIVAL’.

‘Are we the “international” bit?’ asks Griff.

‘Us,’ replies Levon, ‘plus Procol Harum, the Animals and Deep Purple, who played here yesterday.’

‘Who’s Deep Purple?’ asks Elf.

‘A Birmingham band,’ says Griff. ‘They’ve been supporting Cream on tour here. They’re getting quite a name in the States.’

The Camper enters the showground proper. Ranks and files of cars are parked to one side, with tents and camper vans on the other. There are dozens of stalls offering food, drinks and hippie trinkets. A grandstand and a Ferris wheel are visible above a tall wall. Crowds enter through turnstiles.

‘More organised than I’d expected,’ says Elf.

‘It’s big,’ says Griff, ‘but not big big big big.’

‘Twenty thousand punters paying three bucks a head,’ says Levon, ‘is much, much tastier than a half-million paying nothing. The word “free” in “free concert” means “bankrupt”. Walls and turnstiles. That’s the future of festivals, right there.’

A guard recognises Bugbear and waves the van into a fenced-off compound of neatly parked trailers. Two men are lugging a huge Marshall speaker out of a truck. José Feliciano’s soulful croon and Latin guitar figures fill the middle-distance. Bugbear takes them to a trailer with a handwritten ‘UTOPIA AVE’ sign taped to the door. ‘I’ll be taking y’all back later, so break a leg.’ He walks off without a backwards glance.

‘A man o’ few words,’ remarks Dean.

‘Maybe he left his words in Vietnam,’ says Jasper.

‘I’ll slip away and take some pictures,’ says Mecca. She kisses Jasper and exits the compound. ‘See you all later.’

‘Could you take a few of the band when they’re on?’ asks Levon. ‘I’ll find something in the budget if we use any.’

‘Sure.’ She tells Jasper, ‘Break your legs,’ and goes.

‘I love how she says that,’ says Jasper.

Inside the trailer is a kitchenette with jugs of water, overflowing ashtrays, bottles of beer, Pepsi and bowls of grapes and bananas. Marijuana smoke hangs in the air. When everyone is settled with a beer, Levon springs a surprise. ‘Band meeting. Max has put together a possible package of four days’ worth of dates, here in the States.’

Thank God , thinks Dean. I can put off London.

‘It’s intense. Portland on Thursday, Seattle on Friday, Vancouver on Saturday, then Chicago on Sunday to a show at the Aragon Ballroom – also known as the Aragon “Brawl-room” – to be broadcast across the Midwest and Canada. You can say no. But this could shunt Stuff of Life up ten places. Possibly into the Top Ten.’

‘I vote yes,’ says Elf.

‘I vote yes,’ says Jasper.

‘I vote “Shit, yes”,’ says Griff.

‘This gives us an extra day to record,’ says Dean. ‘Could you say we’ll do it if the record company pay our studio fees?’

‘We’ll make a manager of you yet,’ says Levon.

‘Being skint’s my superpower,’ replies Dean.

‘Studio fees are in the deal. If we’re agreed, I’ll tell Max—’

There’s a knock-knock at the door. A sunburned man with sweat-patches and a clipboard peers in. ‘Utopia Avenue? Bill Quarry. I’m the operator of this smooth-running festival machine.’

‘Welcome to your trailer, Bill. Levon Frankland.’

Bill shakes everyone’s hand. ‘José finishes in twenty minutes, then Johnny Winter is on from five till six, then it’s you guys. Why don’t I show you backstage, so you can get the lay of the land?’

Dean is mugged by a huge yawn. ‘I’ll catch forty winks.’

‘Forty “winks”?’ checks Griff.

‘I despair of you two,’ says Elf.

‘Don’t worry, boss,’ Dean tells Levon. ‘I won’t do anything you wouldn’t. Or take anything.’

‘The thought never entered my mind,’ lies Levon.

Dean sinks into the sofa-bed. Something smooth sticks against his cheek. He sits up again and peels off a Tarot card. It shows a figure walking away, up a mountain across a channel of water. The figure carries a staff, like a pilgrim, and wears a red cape. The pilgrim’s hair is shoulder length and brownish, like Dean’s, though his face is turned away. The yellow moon watches him from a twilit sky. Three cups sit on a bottom row of five cups in the foreground, and the words ‘VIII of CUPS’ are written along the top.

The breeze rustles the net curtain. A woman laughs like Dean’s mother used to. The pilgrim won’t be coming back this way again. A nearby crowd of thousands roars its applause as José Feliciano finishes his fluid version of ‘Light My Fire’. Dean puts the Tarot card into his wallet, next to Allen Klein’s business card. He lies back down and shuts his eyes. There’s Rod Dempsey to worry about; there’s Mandy Craddock and my possible son; there’s what to do about Harry Moffat. I’m sure there are more I’ve forgotten … Problems tangle up like clothes in a tumble dryer.

No . Enough. Dean leaves the launderette and follows a path, up a mountain, under a yellow moon both crescent and full, with a staff in his hand. He’s left his worries behind him, on the other side of the river. He won’t be going back …

… and arrives at the Captain Marlow pub in Gravesend. Dave the publican says, ‘Thank God you’re here. Upstairs is on fire and the firemen are on strike.’ So it’s up to Dean, Harry Moffat and Clive from the Scotch of St James to work their way up, floor by floor, fighting the fire with buckets of water and sand that are brought by half-strangers. The flames are purple, noisy and drenched in feedback. At the top of the pub is an attic room. Inside, a scrawny boy with black corkscrew hair is munching grapes …

Dean is in a trailer in California where a scrawny boy with black corkscrew hair is munching grapes. He’s wearing sandals, shorts and a baggy Captain America T-shirt, and looks about ten. His skin-tone is from everywhere. Dean is unimpressed with Bill Quarry’s security arrangements. ‘What rabbit-hole did you pop out of?’

‘Sacramento,’ says the boy.

Dean has no idea where, what or who Sacramento might be. Try again. ‘What’re yer doing in my trailer?’

The boy flips a top off a bottle of Dr Pepper with a bottle-opener. ‘My parents wandered off. Again.’

Dean sits up. ‘Who’re yer parents?’

‘My mom’s name is Dee-Dee. My honorary dad’s Ben.’

‘Don’t yer think yer should go back to them?’

‘I’ve been looking. Ever since the man with the sore throat sang about the bad mood rising. No luck yet.’