Дэвид Митчелл - Utopia Avenue

‘My words exactly,’ said Levon. ‘Vic said, “The Beatles are the exception that proves the rule,” and I said, “No, the Beatles prove the rule that every great band is an exception.” He said, “Utopia Avenue’s not the Beatles . ” I said, “That’s the whole point.”’

‘What was Pye’s fookin’ excuse?’ asked Griff.

‘Mr Elliot told me – I quote – boys won’t “get tribal” about the band because of Elf while girls won’t “cream their knickers” over Dean and Jasper because Elf’s in the band.’

‘That’s … absurd, insulting and kind of incest-y, all at once,’ objected Elf. ‘What a limp reason for not signing us.’

‘Mr Elliot hinted that if we ditched Elf and turned Utopia Avenue into Small Faces clones, he might be interested.’

Elf did a hfff noise as if somebody had punched her.

‘Obviously,’ said Levon, ‘I told him to take a hike.’

‘They take all of us or none of us,’ stated Griff.

Dean lit a cigarette. ‘What about Decca?’

‘Derek Burke,’ Levon leaned back in his creaky chair ‘saw you at the Marquee. He likes your energy, but isn’t sure enough about the hybrid of styles to invest Decca’s money.’

‘That’s us snookered, then,’ said Griff. ‘The Big Four’ve given us the bum’s rush. What now?’

‘I won’t deny it’s a setback,’ said Levon, ‘but—’

‘I’m skinter than I was in January,’ groaned Dean. ‘Half a year I’ve been living on solid air, and what’ve I got to show?’

‘A great band,’ said Levon, ‘three great demos, a small but growing cohort of fans, five or six great songs. Momentum.’

‘If we’re so fookin’ great,’ growled Griff, ‘where’s our record deal? Chas Chandler got Hendrix his in three weeks.’

‘And what about them?’ Dean pointed at the posters of Dick Sposato and the Spencer Sisters. ‘They’ve got deals.’

Levon folded his arms. ‘Hendrix is freak-out guitar R&B. Dick’s an older crooner I’ve taken on as a favour for Freddy Duke. The Spencer Sisters sing arias for the masses and the Songs on Sunday audience. They’re all easy to pitch. Utopia Avenue is not. You are unclassifiable: people will reject you, at first. If this upsets you – or if you think I’m not busting my ass – there’s the door. You’re free. Go. I’ll have Bethany send the release documents.’

Griff and Dean looked at each other and didn’t move.

Jasper watched the clocks above Levon’s head. One showed the time here, one the time in New York, one in Los Angeles.

‘I was a bit out of order,’ admitted Dean.

Griff breathed in and out. ‘Aye. I might’ve been too.’

‘Half-assed apologies accepted,’ said Levon.

Elf tapped her cigarette. ‘What’s our next move?’

Four men sit around a low table: a shaven-headed abbot whose face is engraved on Jasper’s memory; the abbot’s acolyte; the magistrate of the city; and his trusted chamberlain. Dream-lit screens are adorned with chrysanthemums. The acolyte pours a glassy liquid from a gourd as red as blood into soot-black shallow cups. Birdsong is chromatic and glinting.

‘Life and death are indivisible,’ declares the magistrate.

The four raise a cup to their host’s strange toast.

The abbot drinks only when he sees the magistrate has drunk first. A few pleasantries are exchanged before Jasper realises that a fifth guest – Death – is here too. Dabs of odourless poison were smeared inside the rough-hewn cups before the guests arrived. The poison dissolved in the rice-wine and is now in the blood of hosts and guests alike. To ensure the abbot drank the poison, the magistrate and his secretary drank it too.

The abbot understands. This script is written. He reaches for his sword but his arm is stiff and wooden. All he can do is swing his fist at his cup. It skips across the empty floor. ‘The Creeds work, you human termite!’ he tells the magistrate. ‘Oil of Souls works!’ They speak of revenge, justice, buried women and sacrificed babies until the chamberlain topples forward, quivering, scattering black and white pieces of the game of Go. He is followed by the acolyte. Spit and blood foam on their lips. A black butterfly lands on a white stone, and unfolds its wings …

Knock-knock … Knock-knock … Knock-knock …

‘Look at you, Sleeping Beauty.’

Jasper opens his eyes and sees Bea, inches away, gazing down at him. She leans in and kisses his lips. Jasper lets her. Her fingers rest on his face. It’s nice. Birdsong is chromatic and glinting. They’ve met twice: once when Elf brought her to see the band rehearse at Pavel Z’s, and once at Les Cousins where Utopia Avenue played a semi-acoustic set. Bea pulls her head back. ‘Don’t tell Elf.’

‘As you wish,’ says Jasper.

‘If you come across Sleeping Beauty, there’s only one thing to do. But don’t get any big ideas.’

‘I shan’t. Princess Charming.’

She sits on a bench opposite.

The roof garden. The country club. The wedding party. Jasper swivels himself upright. Rudderless cloud-wrecks float by, unmoored. Breathe it in and breathe it out . ‘Are the speeches over? How long was I asleep? We’re supposed to be playing soon.’

Bea counts off her replies: ‘Nearly. I didn’t set a stopwatch. Yes, you are.’ She’s wearing an ink-blue body-hugging dress. She possesses a sharp vivid beauty lacking in her sisters.

‘You’ve changed your dress,’ says Jasper.

‘Bridesmaids’ dresses aren’t my thing. Elf sent me to find you and give you a message.’ Below, a car door slams. Bea helps herself to Jasper’s Marlboros and lighter.

Jasper waits patiently.

Bea breathes out smoke. ‘She says, “Get your arse onstage in twenty minutes.” That was five minutes ago, so make it fifteen.’

‘Tell her, “Thanks for the message: I’ll be there.”’

Bea looks at him oddly.

Is she waiting for more? ‘Please.’

‘What’s it like, being in a band with my sister?’

‘Um … enjoyable?’

‘How so?’

‘She’s talented. She’s a good keys player. Her voice is ethereal and husky. Her songs are strong.’ An aeroplane scrapes by.

Bea slips off her shoes and sits cross-legged. Her toenails are sky-blue, like Trix’s lamp.

Maybe I’m supposed to ask her a question. ‘How did you know where to look for me?’

‘I just pretended I was you and thought,’ Bea mimics Jasper quite well, ‘ How do I get out of here? ’

‘Was that difficult or easy?’

‘I found you. Didn’t I?’

A summer breeze sways lavender in pots.

Bea smokes and passes Jasper her cigarette. It’s smudged pink with her lipstick. ‘Play “Darkroom”,’ she says. ‘I like “Abandon Hope” and “Raft And A River” too, but I think “Darkroom”’s your first hit. It’s quite Sergeant Pepper’s- y. Its colours. Its mood.’

Jasper wonders what would happen if he touched her hand, but Trix told him to always let the lady lead. His throat is dry.

‘You have heard Sergeant Pepper’s , yes?’

The curtain billowed out through Levon’s half-open sash window. Jasper lay on the sofa and watched the others as they listened to side one. Elf sat cocooned in the velvet armchair, studying the lyrics. Dean was stretched out on the rug. Levon sat at the dining table, gazing at a bowl of apples. Griff was propped up against the wall, his hands and wrists twitching in sympathy with Ringo’s. Nobody spoke. Jasper recognised the song that Rick Wright had told him about at the UFO Club.

After the carnivalesque ‘Being for the Benefit of Mr. Kite!’, Levon flipped the record over. George Harrison’s sitar cascaded around like a skittish comet … and metamorphosed into the clarinet of ‘When I’m Sixty-Four’. Jasper noticed how two sounds make a third. The last track, ‘A Day In The Life’, was a miniature of the whole album, like the way that the Book of Psalms is a miniature of the whole Bible. Lennon’s ‘found’ lyrics contrasted with McCartney’s kitchen-sink lines. Together they glowed. The song’s closer was an orchestral day-mare finale spiralling upwards to a final chord, slammed on dozens of pianos. The engineer raised the recording levels as the note fell away. Jasper thought of the end of a dream when the real world seeps in. It ended with backwards laughing gibberish.