Дэвид Митчелл - Utopia Avenue

‘Peter Pope.’ The trout-lipped manager of Allegro Records stroked Elf’s hand. ‘At your service.’ Engelbert Humperdinck sang ‘There Goes My Everything’ on the stereo. ‘Welcome to my “HQ”.’

Elf retrieved her hand. ‘It looks super, Mr Pope.’

‘We boast branches in Maidenhead and Staines, too. On Saturdays, trade is humming. Is that not so, girls?’

‘Absolutely, Mr Pope,’ intoned the two shop assistants. Both were young women Elf’s age, but leggier and twiggier.

‘ Mmmmmm ,’ purred Peter Pope. ‘We have six listening booths. Six. Our competitor by the railway station only has three.’

‘Allegro is the only reputable retailer in the Slough area,’ declared Levon. ‘Care for a smoke, Mr Pope?’

Mr Pope pocketed the whole packet. ‘We cater to all palates, from Ellington to Elvis to Elgar. Is that not so, girls?’

The two assistants said, ‘Absolutely, Mr Pope.’

‘Meet Pale Becky and Dark Becky,’ said Peter Pope. ‘Girls. Miss Elf Holloway is a true English nightingale.’

‘Nice to meet you,’ said Elf.

Pale Becky’s smile said, We’ll decide that .

Dark Becky’s smile said, Yes, you’re in a band, yes, you have a single out, but who’s here begging for favours?

‘Here’s a little something –’ Dean gave the Rebeccas a bouquet each ‘– from Utopia Avenue.’

‘Fancy that,’ said Dark Becky. ‘Twelve red roses.’

‘What will we tell our boyfriends?’ fretted Pale Becky.

‘That they’re the luckiest fellas in Slough, Maidenhead and Staines,’ replied Dean. Elf could have puked, but the Two Beckies looked at each other like reluctantly impressed judges.

‘The stocktaking won’t do itself, girls,’ said Peter Pope.

‘No, Mr Pope.’ They retreated to the stockroom.

The manager turned to Levon. ‘So, Mr Franklin. My little dolce per niente ?’ Levon handed him the envelope of money. It vanished into Peter Pope’s jacket. ‘I own your EP “Oak, Ash And Thorn”, Miss Holloway. It and you are exquisite.’

Elf tried to look pleased. ‘Thank you, Mr Pope.’

‘There’s a piano in my office.’ The manager’s eyes swivelled to a door. ‘Once upon a time, Allegro sold musical instruments.’

‘Is that so?’ asked Elf. ‘Why did you stop?’

‘My brother stole that side of the business.’ Peter Pope sucked in his cheeks. ‘No. Your ears do not deceive you.’

‘That doesn’t sound very fraternal,’ said Levon.

‘I never waste a thought on that backstabbing thief or his pig-pen of a shop by the station. Success is the sweetest revenge. But since both you and a piano are to hand, Miss Holloway, would it be horribly greedy of me to request a tune? All for myself, I mean?’

Levon said, ‘We’re on a tight schedule, I’m afraid—’

‘A sweetener,’ Pope patted his jacket pocket, ‘ adds to the sales figure for the chart compilers at Melody Maker . A private audience with Miss Elf Holloway playing “Any Way The Wind Blows” will multiply those figures by a factor of … ten.’

Elf could smell Peter Pope’s body odour.

Levon’s face told Elf, It’s your decision .

Here was a chance to nudge ‘Darkroom’ up the charts to where a DJ might sit up and take notice. ‘Just one song, then.’

‘We’ll be listening at the keyhole,’ half joked Dean.

‘You could,’ Peter Pope pinched his lips into a triumphant pucker, ‘if there was a keyhole. Mmm mmm. ’

Elf told herself not to worry. It was just one song.

The back office of Allegro Records was beige, tidy and had a view of dustbins. Filing cabinets lined the walls. A black upright piano stood across from the desk. On the piano sat a framed photograph of a stern woman in buttoned-up clothes. Peter Pope closed the office door and lowered his voice. ‘Miss Holloway, I must warn you. Your manager, I think he’s a … you know … one of …’

Elf has no intention of discussing Levon’s homosexuality. ‘His private business is his private business, Mr Pope, and—’

He exhales egg fumes. ‘“Business” is the whole point! It’s all his sort care about. You have read The Merchant of Venice ?’

Elf was baffled. Peter Pope’s blackheads were like sweaty braille bumps. ‘ The Merchant of Venice ?’

‘If your manager is one of them ’ – he stabs his sausage finger at the door – ‘I very much fear for your career.’

Elf didn’t understand. Until she suddenly did. ‘Hang on – are you asking me if Levon’s Jewish?’

Peter Pope’s nostrils flared. ‘Of course. Is he?’

Elf’s first instinct was to say, ‘No, he’s not Jewish at all!’ but then she stumbled: to deny Peter Pope’s accusation would be to validate the gravity of the charge – and what was wrong with being Jewish in the first place?

By now Peter Pope was smiling at his powers of deduction. ‘They hide. I seek. I find. Mmm mmm. It’s the noses.’

‘What? Would you be happier if they all embroidered a Star of David on their smocks?’

‘Oh, you hip young things gobble up their propaganda like Jelly Tots. Wake up! CND? Run by Jews. BBC? Ditto. LSD? Invented by Jews. Bob Dylan? A Jew. Brian Epstein? A Jew. Elvis Presley? A Jew. Your counter-culture is a Zionist smokescreen.’

‘Do you seriously believe this?’ asked Elf.

‘Who do you think ushered Adolf Hitler into power? The Rothschilds. They knew the way to the State of Israel was through the concentration camps. All down history, they’ve been pulling the levers. I described it for The Times but my exposé was censored.’

‘Maybe The Times needed proof,’ suggested Elf.

‘Amateurs might leave “proof” lying round, but the Zionists don’t. That’s why we can be sure they’re running things.’

‘So your only proof is your lack of proof?’ asked Elf.

‘Don’t be ridiculous. Forty days exactly after sending my exposé to The Times , I was invited to join the Slough Masonic Lodge. Oh, I sent the trouser-tuggers packing. Peter Pope is not for sale.’ He lit one of Levon’s cigarettes and took a few puffs.

The sooner I play it, the sooner I’m out of here . Elf sat at the piano and played a quick D scale to wake her fingers …

… In the final verse, scissors snipped close to her ear. Elf yanked her head away from the blades. Peter Pope peered at a long lock of Elf’s hair, pinched between his forefinger and thumb. He looked sexually aroused. Elf jumped off the piano stool, banging her knee. She was shaking. ‘Why– why did you cut my hair off?’

‘A chap’s entitled to a souvenir.’ Peter Pope twirled the scissors around his finger. He brushed his cheek with the lock of her hair, savouring Elf’s disgust and liking it. ‘Your hair’s like Mother’s.’ Elf hurried over to the door. Nightmarishly, the knob wouldn’t work. She turned it the other way, not daring to look back, and was out, into a record shop on a Friday afternoon in Slough.

Lulu was singing ‘Let’s Pretend’ on the shop stereo.

Levon was flicking through the jazz albums.

Dean was chatting up Pale Becky, by the look of it.

The shop bell dinged as a customer entered.

Levon looked up. ‘That didn’t take long. All well?’

Elf was about to say, ‘ No, that pervert just snipped off a strand of my hair! ’ But what could Levon do? Tell Peter Pope to give the lock of hair back? She didn’t want it back. If she reported the manager to the police, the desk sergeant would laugh. What law had the shop manager broken? If the slimy creep told Melody Maker that ‘Darkroom’ had sold 800 copies across his three stores instead of eighty, who’s to say that wouldn’t nudge it into the Top Fifty?