Дэвид Митчелл - Utopia Avenue

‘I am agog.’

A toilet flushes. An artist emerges from the cubicle.

‘Francis!’ half shrieks Jerome. ‘We were …’

‘Tell your comrades in Moscow,’ says Francis, “Let me in, it’s all over, nobody in London will even spit on me now”.’

Jerome forces his mouth to smile. ‘You and I are too grown-up to bicker over a silly misunderstanding.’

‘If you’re still here when I finish washing my hands,’ Francis goes to the basin, ‘I’ll have the manager send you the bill.’

A cave-black passageway off Dufours Place swallows them. A twist and a turn later, Levon and Francis emerge in a tiny courtyard with grated windows and ruckled paving. A neon sign stamps two words on the bricked-in dark: ‘LAZARUS DIVES’.

A statement, a promise or a warning?

The door opens at Francis’s approach and closes behind them. Inside is dim and reddish. A voice says, ‘Welcome back, sir.’ Francis mumbles something. ‘Of course, sir, if you vouch for him,’ and then, ‘Extremely generous of you, sir.’ Steps lead down to an arched cellar vibrant with Jimmy Smith’s molten Hammond and Stanley Turrentine’s volcanic sax. Levon can’t determine the size of the club, if that’s the right word. Discreet booths with tables and benches are arranged around a dance-floor of flagstones. It may have been a crypt, once upon a time. Most of Lazarus Dives’ clientele is male, though a few women are dancing amid the queerness as if none of this is a big deal. Men flirt at the bar, hold hands, touch. Several eye up Levon. Which is flattering, because Levon’s still dressed for a Bill Evans gig, not for a Soho club where men meet men. No, idiot, it’s because you’re with Francis fricking Bacon. The last face is dangerously handsome. Thick black curly hair, darkish skin, chest visible to his solar plexus, like a satyr from Greek mythology. Levon thinks, I’m going to know you very well , then dismisses the idea. ‘It’s Bloody Mary o’clock.’

‘A Bloody Mary would be perfect. How did you know?’

‘A proper night out is both bomb-making and bomb-disposal. Two Bloody Marys, if you’d be so kind …’ A giant barman nods. A hairless mod and a bearded hippie are locked in a yearning kiss.

‘I’ve never heard of this place,’ says Levon.

‘All tastes are catered for.’ The artist’s face is inches away.

Levon stares back at a man twice his age.

Francis plants a strange, slow, pouted kiss on Levon’s lips. Their eyes stay open. Lust is absent. It’s a ritual. Francis pulls back and massages the muscles and fascia of Levon’s face: not gently, not painfully. ‘Our persecutors maintain that’ – Francis sighs the word, regretfully – ‘“homosexuals” violate Nature’s law. A decrepit falsehood. Nature’s law is oblivion. Youth and vigour are fleeting aberrations. This truth is the canvas on which I paint.’

A boy with a face like a girl or a girl with a face like a boy slides open a Swan Vesta matchbox. Inside are two white pills. Francis puts one in his mouth and swallows it. Levon looks at the other. Asking ‘What is it?’ is not an option. Acid, aspirin, vitamin C, a placebo, cyanide … it could be anything.

Levon swallows it. Francis tells him, ‘Good boy.’

A bassist, a drummer and a keyboardist set up an oscillating drone, heavy with reverb. The drone seduces even non-dancers like Levon into dancing. A man in a nightshirt and face-paint is spinning plates on poles. He’s up to thirteen. One for each guest at the Last Supper , thinks the reverend’s son. It’s like the UFO Club was before the tourists flooded it . A skinny man in sunglasses joins the band and lays tenor sax lines over the drone. They stab, slalom, wheel and ululate. Less commercial than Stockhausen, but they’re perfect for Lazarus. The Satyr, incredibly, is orbiting Levon, or vice versa. He could have any guy in the place. His lips are full and serious. His eyes inspire vertigo. I could fall inside them and never reach the end. His skin is bathed in dark red light and beaded with sweat. The pill is sharpening Levon’s senses like speed and giving him a Mandrax glow. No hallucinations , he thinks gratefully, unless this place is one, or this evening, or the whole of my life. The Satyr leads Levon off the dance floor. His palms are scaly with calluses: clearly the Satyr works with his hands. They pass through another door, into a small room furnished for assignations with a single bed, clean sheets, a chair, some cords. It’s as warm as a body. A red lamp glows like embers. The nameless band’s bass throbs. The Satyr pours Levon a glass of water from a jug. It’s cool and fresh. The Satyr drinks from the same glass. He holds an apple to Levon’s lips. It’s tart and lemony. The Satyr bites the same apple.

They talk, a little, in the naked darkness. Both are cautious about giving details away. Up those magic stairs awaits a harsh reality and we can’t be too careful. The Satyr is a native Dubliner called Colm. He calls himself ‘Black Irish’ – a descendant of Spanish sailors from the shipwrecked Armada fleet, ‘Though that’s a yarn used to cover a multitude of sins.’ Levon says he’s in music publishing. Colm says, ‘I’m a sparky’ – adding, ‘electrician’ when he sees Levon doesn’t know the word. Colm asks if it’s true ‘yer old tubby uncle feller’ is one of the greatest painters of the century. Levon says, ‘ The greatest, to my mind.’ Colm asks if Levon’s ‘with him’. Levon says no, he’s just along for the ride. Levon takes a biro from his jacket and writes his number on Colm’s left palm. ‘You can wash me away or you can call me.’ There’s a tattoo of a cross over Colm’s heart. Very gently, Levon sucks it. Afterwards, Colm asks Levon if Levon’s his real name: Levon says yes, it is – what about Colm? He says yes, it is. When Levon wakes, the Satyr is gone. Methodically, Levon checks that his wallet, watch and pen are still in his jacket and trousers. Everything is in its right place.

Pictures of the Nativity, in crayon. Snowmen. Eyes on upside-down chins. Fairy cakes. Jokes about Newfies and Nova Scotians. Goals in junior ice hockey. Book reports. A cake rack. Prayers to God to make him normal. Crusty tissues. A bonfire of love poems to Wes Bannister. Shovelled paths through snow. Camping trips with the Baptist Boys Adventurers. Fumbles with Kenton Lester in a tent in the Adirondack Park. ‘ That Game ’, Kenton called it. ‘ Wanna play That Game? ’ Kenton’s face twisted with pleasure. Shooting stars. Later, furious denials. Outrage! Promises to himself to be more careful. Promises, when Kenton’s family moved to Vancouver. Sticky fantasies. Essays. Exams. His bed in a room at the University of Toronto. Friends. Talk of Freud, Marx, Northrop Frye. Trips to see foreign films. Roll-ups. Poetry. Visits to folk-clubs. ‘That Game’ with a married judge, on the sixteenth floor of the Inn on the Park, one Saturday. Another Saturday. Another. Scandal. His father, shouting. His mother, sobbing. A meeting about an electrotherapy clinic. A decision. A six-hour bus journey to New York. Decorations for his tiny room in Brooklyn. Poetry. A job in the post room of a Wall Street brokerage. Enough money to buy a guitar. Songs. Trips to Greenwich Village. Advice from Dave Van Ronk: ‘Kid, we’re all put on this Earth for a reason, but molesting that guitar, it ain’t yours.’ Sex with boys of a dozen races, creeds and sizes. Yes, sizes . A job at a record shop on 29th and 3rd. A desk with the Mayhew-Reeves agency. The Beatles at Shea Stadium. Their manager, Brian Epstein, he’s one of us … A poky office at the Broadway West Agency. A passport application. London! Trips with artists to Paris, to Madrid, to Bonn. Repair-jobs on fragile egos. Letters to his mother and his sisters. His third, fourth, fifth Christmas out of Canada. A letter from his elder sister: ‘ Dearest Lev, this is ridiculous, you’re my brother … ’ Photographs. A partial, secret family reunion at Niagara Falls. An office at Pye. A stint at managing the Great Apes. A top-floor flat in Queens Gardens. Cordial relations with A&R men. A handshake with Howie Stoker and Freddy Duke. A call to Bethany Drew. Plans. A trip to see Jasper de Zoet play in Archie Kinnock’s group. A trip to 2i’s with Dean Moss. Utopia Avenue, or three-quarters of. Elf Holloway. Take-off! Small tours. A deal with Victor French at Ilex. ‘Darkroom’. The album. More dates for the new year. A trip to Hull. Cancellations. Apologies.