Дэвид Митчелл - Utopia Avenue

They fed me to their godly flames.

‘Pervert’, ‘monster’, ‘deviant’

Were just some of the nicer names.

Conform, conform, or be cast out.

The dogma is intense.

To build your own Utopia is

A criminal offence.

What is plotted will unravel.

What is built slip out of joint.

Good intentions get forgotten.

Makes you wonder, what’s the point?

Levon knew it wasn’t Robert Lowell or Wallace Stevens, but it had passed the time. Self-pity can lift one’s mood. The landscape now was as flat as a prairie but wet, criss-crossed with wide ditches and drainage channels. A cathedral floated into view. Levon wondered which one it was. Lincoln? Peterborough?

‘Ely.’ Jasper yawned. ‘Where I went to school.’

‘So that’s Ely. Fond memories?’

‘Memories,’ replied Jasper.

Levon closed his notebook.

‘You wrote a poem.’

If Elf or Dean had asked, Levon might have lied. ‘Yes.’

‘Please can I read it?’

Levon was curious about Jasper’s curiosity. He acted on instinct, said, ‘It’s just verses,’ and handed over the notebook.

Jasper’s eyes flickered down the lines.

Then he read it a second time.

The train jolted out its own rhythm.

Jasper handed it back. ‘It works.’

The train stopped at a country station, but as it pulled away, it screeched to a halt. The light in the compartment went out. The driver informed the passengers of a ‘mechanical situation’. Levon wiped an eye-slit on the fogged-up window and read the station name: GREAT CHESTERFORD.

‘A notorious spot for breakdowns,’ said Jasper.

Half an hour later, the driver announced that ‘A mechanic had been dispatched to investigate the mechanical situation.’

‘Love the tautology,’ said Elf.

‘Bloody British Rail,’ groaned Dean.

A hailstorm swept over the Fens. The stuffy compartment got stuffier. Three babies bawled at once. Sneezers seeded the air with germs. Levon had aspirins, but when he poured tea into the cup-lid of his Thermos to wash the tablets down, he found it laced with tiny shards of glass from the interior of the flask. Levon pooled saliva in his dehydrated mouth to swallow the chunky pills. They lodged in his oesophagus. He sucked a Polo mint and finally got the pills down. He blurted out the truth: ‘We need a hit single. Urgently.’

‘We’d all like one o’ them,’ says Dean.

‘No. We need a hit single. Or it’s over.’

‘What d’yer mean, “it’s over”?’

‘Our deal with Ilex.’

Elf looked uneasy. ‘They’re dropping us?’

‘Says bloody who?’ asked Dean.

‘Says Günther Marx. And commercial logic.’

‘But you saw Griff,’ said Elf. ‘Mentally, physically, spiritually, he’s not ready to come back.’

‘That is true, Elf. And so is this: if we don’t put out a hit single and promote the shit out of it, there’ll be no band to come back to.’

‘Griff’ll be on his feet again soon.’ Dean sounded scornful. ‘And if Ilex don’t want us, screw ’em. We’ll switch to a label that does.’

‘Name one.’ Levon’s headache was getting worse. ‘The last single flopped. Paradise is not selling well.’

‘So are yer saying we get a new drummer?’ asked Dean. ‘Screw that too. If Ringo Starr got hit by a bloody great truck—’

‘The Beatles have millions in the bank and a back catalogue that shits out money every hour. Utopia Avenue have fuck-all in the bank, Dean, and we have no back catalogue.’

‘Hang on, Levon,’ said Elf. ‘Hang on. Are you saying you want to sack Griff because his brother just died in a horrific car crash, and he’s too full of grief to play? Seriously?’

‘I am laying out the facts. Because somebody has to. Or there is no band. Of course we give Griff time. Of course. But you heard Griff. You saw him. It is entirely possible he won’t be back.’

‘Drummers like Griff don’t grow on trees,’ said Elf.

‘You think I don’t know that?’ asked Levon. ‘I chose him! But a drummer who can’t drum isn’t a drummer. Jasper. Speak.’

Jasper drew a spiral on the steamy glass. ‘Eight days.’

‘Speak English, not Cryptic Crossword. Please. I have a headache as big as East Anglia.’

‘My Dutch grandfather used to say, “If you don’t know what to do, do nothing for eight days.”’

Dean asked, ‘Why eight?’

‘Less than eight is haste. More than eight is procrastination. Eight days is long enough for the world to shuffle the deck and deal you another hand.’

Without warning, the train shuddered into motion.

The passengers raised a weary ironic cheer.

The applause for ‘Waltz For Debby’ dies down. ‘Thanks,’ says Bill Evans. ‘Thanks a lot. So, uh, this next one I wrote after my father’s passing. It’s called “Turn Out The Stars” and … uh, yeah …’ The taciturn American balances his cigarette on the ashtray and leans in low over the keyboard. He half shuts his eyes. His hands take over.

Levon recalls Elf playing her freshly composed ‘Mona Lisa Sings The Blues’ on this very Steinway in a well of sunshine half a year ago. He thinks of Griff in his hospital bed. All that work , those meetings, phone calls, letters, the favours I cashed in, the crap I took from Howie Stoker, from Victor French, from everyone – all to get Paradise recorded and released, all turning to shit …

Shut up and listen. The greatest jazz pianist in the world is playing ten yards away. Pavel appears and places a glass of vodka on the little table. He gives Levon’s knee a consoling pat in a way no straight man would and withdraws, exposing Levon to a neighbouring patron’s stare. The man saw. Levon’s unease and involuntary guilt is calmed by the man’s sympathetic expression and cocked eyebrow . Levon knows that roundish, storied face. Late fifties, a grey quiff, almost cherubic, had things gone differently …

Francis Bacon . Archly, the painter nods. Levon looks to his left and right – me ? Francis Bacon’s lips twist into a pert smile.

Bill Evans’s unfolding rendition of ‘Never Let Me Go’ washes Levon in memories – intimate, painful, vivid. What was; what never was; what should have been; and what is, right now, on the first weekend of the New Year. The extended Frankland clan and favoured members of his father’s congregation will be gathering in the family home in Kleinburg, outside Toronto, to welcome in 1968. The Christmas tree will still be up. Levon hasn’t been a welcome guest for ten years. He was not invited to his sisters’ weddings. I’m used to this … I got over it a long time ago. Christmas and New Year are hard, though.

‘I’m Francis. Might I intrude?’ Francis Bacon is leaning in. ‘You see, my friend Humph lured me along, describing Mr Evans in rapturous terms – but frankly, I’m what’s called “lost at sea”.’ The artist speaks queer English with a terse Irish underlay. ‘I saw how transported you were, so I’ve plucked up my courage to ask you for a pointer or two.’

Is Francis Bacon hitting on me? wonders Levon. ‘I’m hardly a jazz buff, but … sure, I’ll answer the best I can.’

‘You’re buff enough for me. So, would “Why doesn’t he just play the damn tune the way it goes?” be a silly question?’

‘Only if “Why doesn’t Van Gogh just paint the damn sunflowers the way they look?” is a silly question.’

Francis Bacon performs a chortle, then looks mock-coy. ‘You must think me an awful old dunderhead.’

‘No. People who don’t ask are dunderheads. To pianists like Bill Evans, what matters is less the melody itself and more what the melody evokes . Like Debussy. When Debussy’s Preludes appeared, he had their titles – “ Des pas sur la neige ”, “ La cathédrale engloutie ”, so on – printed at the end of the score, so the music could speak for itself, free of textual interference. For Mr Evans there, a hummable tune is interference. The tune’s the vehicle, not the destination.’ A few people move away, giving a view of the square-jawed, heroin-gaunt pianist. ‘I don’t know if you’re more at sea than you were before I started talking.’