Дэвид Митчелл - Utopia Avenue

‘So … yer lost?’

The boy sips his Dr Pepper. ‘My parents are lost.’

All I wanted was a bit o’ shut-eye. Dean goes to the door of the trailer. A few muscled roadies are milling around. They don’t look likely to help a lost boy . In lieu of a more purposeful action, Dean asks him, ‘What’s yer name?’

‘What’s yours?’

Dean’s surprised into answering, ‘Dean.’

‘I’m …’ the boy says something like ‘Bolly Var’.

‘Oliver?’

‘ Bo - li - var . Bolívar. After Simón Bolívar, the revolutionary from the early 1800s. Bolivia’s named after him.’

‘Right. Bolívar. Look, I’ve got to go and perform soon, so why don’t yer take those grapes, and …’ Dean realises he can’t tell a ten-year-old to go and hunt for two people in a crowd of thousands. He wishes Levon or Elf was here. He sees the security man at the gate to the VIP compound under his big sun-umbrella. ‘We’ll go ask that sort o’ policeman over there. He’ll know what to do.’

Bolívar looks amused. ‘Whatever you say, Dean.’

They leave the trailer and walk over. Security Man wears a hunter’s hat, reflective sunglasses and a combat jacket. ‘’Scuse me,’ says Dean, ‘but this kid just appeared in my trailer.’

‘So?’

‘So, he’s separated from his parents.’

‘That big blue flag.’ Security Man points towards a pavilion across a field of campers. ‘That there’s the lost kid tent.’

‘But I’m Dean Moss. I’m in Utopia Avenue.’

‘So in Utopia lost kids are someone else’s problem, are they?’

‘No, but I’m a musician. Lost kids aren’t my responsibility.’

‘Ain’t mine neither, pal. I can’t abandon my post.’

‘So whose responsibility is it to walk this kid to that tent?’

‘That’s a procedural matter. Ask Bonnie or Bunny.’

Dean sees his incredulous face reflected in Security Man’s sunglasses. ‘Where are Bonnie or Bunny?’

He gestures at Heaven and Earth. ‘Could be anywhere.’

Oh f’ fucksake. Dean crouches. ‘Look, Bolívar. See that blue flag over there?’ He points. ‘That’s the lost kid tent.’

‘Let’s get going, then, Dean.’

‘Great idea,’ says Security Guy.

Smarmy git , thinks Dean. ‘We can’t encourage a boy to go wandering off with strangers.’

‘But you ain’t a stranger,’ says Security Guy. ‘You’re Dean Moss. You’re in Utopia Avenue.’

Dean has been outplayed. If I don’t spend ten minutes walking him over, I’ll spend seventy years wondering what happened to him. ‘Okay, Bolívar. Let’s go.’

‘If I ride on your shoulders,’ says Bolívar, a few paces into their journey, ‘Dee-Dee or Ben might spot me.’ Dean hoists him up. Bolívar presses his hands on Dean’s skull like a faith healer. He shouldn’t trust strangers this much , thinks Dean. Yet now Dean has been chosen, he is determined not to let the boy down. Guitar chords from inside the showground criss-cross their own echoes. Women are sunbathing on blankets. Teens sit around smoking. Couples canoodle. Families eat in the shade of tents. Girls are having their faces painted. A woman breastfeeds her baby like it’s no big deal. Yer don’t see that in Hyde Park. Clowns are patrolling on stilts. Teenagers are strumming on guitars. I know that tune … They’re working out the chords to ‘Roll Away The Stone’. They’re arguing over whether it’s a D or a D minor. I’ll let them work it out , thinks Dean. I had to.

Bolívar asks, ‘How old are you?’

‘Twenty-four. How old are you?’

‘Eight hundred and eight.’

‘Huh. I guess yer use face-cream.’

‘Are you from London, Dean?’

‘Yeah, I am. How d’yer know?’

‘You speak like the chimney sweep in Mary Poppins. ’

‘Where I’m from, you sound funny too.’

A scrimmage of wild children rushes by, shrieking.

‘Are you a dad?’ asks Bolívar.

‘Wow, look at that balloon-bender.’

‘Do you have any kids?’

Sharp as a tack. ‘The jury’s still out on that one.’

‘Why don’t you know if you have any kids or not?’

‘Grown-up reasons.’

Bolívar shifts his weight. ‘Did you have sex with a lady who had a baby, but you don’t know if her baby grew from the seed you put in her womb or not?’

Bloody – hell. Dean twists his head to look at Bolívar.

The boy looks victorious.

‘How d’yer know that? How could yer know?’

‘Educated guess.’

‘God, yer grow up quick in America.’ Dean carries on towards the blue flag. A biplane hauls a banner reading, ‘THIRSTY? GRAB A COKE!’ across the nearly cloudless sky.

‘Why don’t you want to be a dad?’ asks Bolívar.

‘Why d’yer ask so many “why?” questions?’

‘Why did you stop asking “why?” questions?’

‘’Cause I grew up. ’Cause it’s bloody annoying.’

‘You’d have to put a quarter in the Profanity Jar if you were in our family,’ says the boy. ‘Mom started it because she doesn’t want me growing up in a sewer. So why don’t you want to be a dad?’

‘What makes yer think I don’t?’

‘You change the subject when I bring it up.’

Dean stops to let a water-melon vendor push his cart by. ‘I s’pose … I’m afraid of being a dad I wouldn’t want as a dad.’

Bolívar pats his head as if to say, There, there.

A freckled man in a San Francisco Giants shirt and a floppy hat is hovering in the mouth of the lost kid tent, puffing nervously on a cigarette. When he sees Bolívar his face transforms from bottled panic to sheer relief. It was worth bringing the kid over just to see that , thinks Dean . ‘ Jesus Christ , Bolly,’ says the freckled man, ‘you gave us a fright.’

‘Profanity Jar,’ says Bolívar. ‘Two quarters. One for the “Jesus” and one for the “Christ”. I won’t forget.’

The man makes a God-give-me-strength face and tells Dean, ‘Thanks. I’m Benjamin Olins – just “Ben” is fine. I’m his stepdad.’

‘“Honorary dad”,’ insists the boy.

‘Honorary dad.’ Ben lifts Bolívar off Dean’s shoulders. ‘Mom is having a cow. Where were you?’

‘Looking for you. I found him –’ the boy points at Dean ‘– in a trailer. His name’s Dean, he’s from London and he isn’t sure if he’s a dad or not. Speak to him, Ben. Old guy to old guy.’

Ben listens to this, frowns, and looks at Dean properly. ‘Dean Moss? From Utopia Avenue? Holy crap. It is you.’

‘One more quarter,’ says Bolívar. ‘You’re up to three now.’

‘But Utopia Avenue’s why we’re here today, and—’

‘No ifs, no buts: three quarters. And Mom’s here for Johnny Winter, not Dean. Sorry, Dean. There’s a lady over there giving candy to lost kids. I’ll be right back. Don’t wander off.’

‘Yer said it was yer mum ’n’ Ben who got lost,’ points out Dean.

‘She’s not going to hand out lollipops to a grown-up, is she? Think it through, Dean.’ Bolívar goes over.

‘Not yer average kid,’ Dean tells Ben.

‘Jeez Louise – you have no id e a.’

‘Eight hundred and eight years old, he said he was.’

‘He’s been keeping that up since he was five. Acute meningitis. Nearly died, poor kid, and he came out of his coma kinda … different to before. Sometimes Dee-Dee – Bolly’s mom – thinks we should get him looked at, but … he’s a happy enough kid, so I’m not sure what we’d be trying to fix. But, Dean, I really dig your music. I run a record store over in Sacramento. If I’ve hand-sold one copy of Stuff of Life , I’ve hand-sold fifty. Your first album sells too, of course, but Stuff of Life is …’ Ben mimes an aeroplane gaining altitude.