Дэвид Митчелл - Utopia Avenue

‘Donate any surplus to the Soho Home for Geriatric Poofs. Jerome’s going to need a roof over his head.’

Jerome pretends to find this droll as he retrieves the fallen notes. Levon notices him stuffing a few into his pocket. Champagne is uncorked and glasses are filled. The piano falls quiet. ‘Queens, queers, stiffs, straights, squares, givers, parasites, mediocrities, fellow artists, hypocrites, crooks, honest souls, old friends’ – Francis catches Levon’s eye – ‘dark handsome strangers and Muriel, who maintains this enchanted outpost of Utopia. For a brief spell, we share a stage. Others are coming to kick us off. But while you’re here, write yourself a good part. Act it well.’ He looks around the bar. ‘Act it well. There’s nothing else to say because there’s nothing more to say. Wisdom is platitudes gussied up.’

Someone at the back calls out, ‘Happy New Year to you too, you miserable fuck!’ and Francis bows. Levon knocks back his glass of champagne. It tastes of liquid starlight …

Levon drinks a galaxy. The pianist is playing ‘I’ve Got You Under My Skin’ . Lucian buys him a Pisco Sour with Angostura bitters. Does he want to get me drunk too? Levon’s confused. He’s a straight observer, slumming it with the queers … Francis has a word in Levon’s ear: ‘My gallerist’s brother-in-law has opened a music club, tucked away behind Regent Street. They’re having dinner at Harkaway’s. Would you care to tag along, as my guest? It might be a frightful bore, but I can promise the freshest seafood in London.’ Levon can’t recall his answer, but now he’s walking up Bateman Street with Francis the artist and Jerome the fantasist. An icy wind gropes Levon’s tenderer spots. It sobers him up a little. Francis stops at the corner of Bateman and Dean Streets. ‘Do you know, I’m in the mood for a flutter? Let’s go to Penrose’s.

Served in a pea-green porcelain boat, the mussel shells are blue-black on the outside and flint-grey inside. Harkaway’s restaurant is housed on the ground floor of the Kingly Street Hotel. Candles are beeswax, linen is starched, cutlery is heavy. It’s far above Levon’s budget, but he’s enjoying not worrying about the band for the first time since the grim news reached him on Christmas morning about Griff’s accident. Jerome is bragging about his victory at roulette in the casino. Levon’s memories of Penrose’s are splintered and distant, a losing streak at blackjack viewed through the wrong end of a kaleidoscope. Francis, Jerome and Levon have joined a larger party of gilded people. Levon features in the story as a minor character – ‘Our poor Canadian cousin’ who ‘got well and truly Waterloo’d’ at blackjack. Jerome is trying to needle him, but the needles aren’t sharp enough to irritate. Besides, his memories of Penrose’s feel as unreliable as Jerome’s. Levon half recalls running into Samuel Beckett at the casino bar; and yet there were no witnesses, and such a random encounter sounds far-fetched, even to Levon. His neighbour at the table is an alleged duchess – of Rothermere, or possibly Windermere, or maybe even Van der Meer and – unless Levon dreamed this part – is George Orwell’s widow. ‘These oysters are or gas mic. Have one.’

Levon slurps at the shell she brings to his lips. He washes it down with Château Latour. Francis ordered six bottles. Even the French sommelier was mildly impressed by the bill-trebling order.

‘I’ve never met a music mogul before,’ the duchess says.

If I was Dean, I’d be all over her like a rash. ‘I’ve never met a widow of George Orwell before,’ says Levon.

‘What do I need to know about you?’ asks the duchess.

That I prefer men , thinks Levon. ‘I’m not a true mogul.’

‘But you do choose the stars of tomorrow, as it were?’

‘Only in the sense that punters in a betting shop “choose” the winner of the two-fifteen at Aintree. I only have one major act signed. Well, “major” in a “still minor” way. Well, “potentially major”. So you see. No mogul.’

‘If you have designs on Levon’s lolly,’ Jerome tells the duchess, ‘think again. Has anyone here even heard of Utopia Street?’

‘Avenue.’ Levon twigs too late that Jerome got it wrong on purpose. Fuck-face.

‘I’ll wager more people know Levon’s pop group than ever heard of you , Jerome Blissett, master spy, professorial parasite and part-time paint tormentor.’

Jerome smiles at Francis’s little witticism. Francis does not. Levon knows the man is butchered on the inside.

The duchess whispers to Levon, ‘You cut your lip. Oyster shell. That must have been me.’

‘It’s nothing.’ Levon dabs his lip with his napkin and is unduly entranced by the way the linen drinks up his blood. Osmosis.

‘How are your new paintings coming along for the new exhibition, Francis?’ asks a Dickensian caricature.

‘Modern slavery. Valerie from the Gallery wants another six by the end of … some month. I don’t recall. It’s soon.’

George Orwell’s widow asks, ‘Are you satisfied with what you have so far?’

‘No artist is ever satisfied with his work,’ replies Francis. ‘Except Henry Moore.’

Jerome swallows an oyster. ‘I met Salvador and Gala Dalí in Paris last month. He’s putting together a new show, too.’

‘Fancy. The Great Masturbator is doing art, now?’

‘I saw the Jackson Pollock retrospective at the New York Met,’ says the Duchess of Somewhere. ‘Do you rate him?’

‘I rate him most highly,’ says Francis. ‘As a lacemaker.’

It’s Battle Royale , thinks Levon. He’s assassinating rivals, one put-down at a time. A sole meunière appears with a pillow of string beans. It smells of butter, pepper and the sea.

Several glasses of Château Latour later, the door of the Gents at Harkaway’s veers this way and that. Levon commands it to stay still. Sulkily, it obeys. Levon’s deflating his bladder at the urinal. Urinal . The capital U: U for U-bend. A familiar figure shambles across the periphery of his vision. A cubicle door is bolted. The tiles in front of Levon are off-white and ink-blue. He thinks of the Delftware on his mother’s dresser at the reverend’s rectory in Kleinburg, Toronto. Of the band plus me , thinks Levon, only Griff and Elf have sane relationships with their fathers. A few seconds pass. A few more seconds pass. A few more seconds pass. Levon buttons his fly and goes to wash his hands. ‘Look at you, swanning around casinos and nightspots with a famous sugar-daddy.’ It’s Jerome, his face in the mirror. ‘Just remember this: I’ve known him for years. I’m an artist. You’re a bean-counter. You’re a tick. Piss off or I’ll contact my KGB handler and have you vanished. The police would never even find your body.’

The scarier Jerome tries to be, the more pitiful he becomes.

Jerome misreads Levon’s silence as proof of successful intimidation. ‘Your plan’ll never work.’

Levon is curious. ‘Plan?’

‘You’re hardly the first, darling. Swap your arse-crack for a few Francis Bacon originals, flog ’em for a life of Riley.’

Levon dries his hands, bins the towel and turns around to face his adversary. ‘First, my arse-crack is not for sale, and—’

‘Oh, you think the cock-struck dotard’s invited you along for the quality of your conversation?’

‘Second, why would he give art to a stranger? He’s no fool. And third—’

‘George milked him for thousands, and now George’s family’s blackmailing the idiot.’

‘You really should’ve listened to my “third”.’