Дэвид Митчелл - Utopia Avenue

‘Why “unfortunately”?’

‘If your theory is correct, and the Mongolian was a mental sheriff I created to lock up my psychosis, there’s hope I could do it again. But if I’m right, and the Mongolian was real and came to Rijksdorp by fluke, my prognosis is not good.’

Outside a woman shouts, ‘ Watch where you’re going! ’

‘You must feel like a nightwatchman, Jasper, who knows only that danger is coming, not when or from which direction.’

‘That’s not a bad simile.’

‘Why, thank you.’ Dr Galavazi sips his green tea. ‘I’d like to read this –’ he holds up the notebook ‘– review the facts and conduct a fuller interview than we have time for this evening. For now, I’ll give you a prescription for Queludrin. Take it to a chemist before you return to England so that if a full relapse does occur you’ll have a little breathing space.’

Say ‘Thank you.’ ‘Thank you.’

The psychiatrist thinks. ‘One thing more. In Boston, I met a psychologist based at Columbia University in New York. He’s an odd fellow, with unorthodox methods, to say the least. But I’ve come to respect him greatly. He’s curious about AHPs in general – and the patient JZ in particular. May I share tonight’s conversation with him?’

‘Yes. What’s his name?’

‘Dr Yu Leon Marinus. He’s Chinese. To look at. But that’s not the whole story. Most people just call him Marinus for short.’

The long solo in ‘Purple Flames’ grows ever longer as Jasper finds a secret passage deep inside. The high roof, vaulted murk, arches and windows evoke the Paradiso’s origins as a Nonconformist house of worship. Worship still happens here , thinks Jasper. Not of us four, but worship of music itself. Music frees the soul from the cage of the body. Music transforms the Many to a One. The Marshall stacks vibrate his skeleton. We touch something divine. His Stratocaster speaks of ecstasy and despair. We’re not gods, but we are channels for something that is god-like. Jasper could die here and now and not feel short-changed by life. He looks at Dean who knows that the end is nigh. Jasper closes with a flashy bend of the top two strings and Dean rips into the final verse like a blowtorch. His vocals are twice as powerful as they were a year ago, in part thanks to Jack Bruce from Cream, who appeared backstage after their McGoo’s gig in Edinburgh and gave him some pointers about singing while playing bass. He has also taken some formal singing lessons and now has an extra half-octave at either end of his comfort zone. Elf is in no mood to be upstaged, and slams into a particularly pyrotechnic Hammond solo. Jasper wonders if Guus de Zoet or his half-brothers are out there in the Paradiso. Unlikely. Wouldn’t they have got in touch? Who knows? If normal people are difficult to read, the de Zoets are cryptic crosswords …

Backstage, Jasper loses the others in a merry-go-round of faces who appear to know him. Sam Verwey is one of the few he can name. ‘So, de Zoet. You left Amsterdam a nobody and come back a fully fledged pop star. My pupils think you’re God. When I tell them we used to busk together in Dam Square, they think I’m bullshitting them so I’m taking this picture of us … Smile!’ A flash explodes in Jasper’s eyes and brain.

‘A triumph!’ roars Big Smiler. ‘A coronation! An apotheosis!’

‘Need any uppers, downers, out-of-towners?’ asks a pinstriped Mr Toad. ‘’Shrooms, dope, Bennies, bombers? You name it, I got it.’

Big Smiler becomes Loud Laugher. ‘Why the hell have you stayed away for so long, eh? Amsterdam needs you …’

‘They’ll be shitting cold puke now at De Zoet HQ,’ remarks the Queen, who can’t possibly be on the balcony, smoking a doobie.

‘Thijs Ogtrot from Hitweek ,’ says an undertaker’s face. ‘Is it true you spent two years at Rijksdorp asylum?’

From the balcony Jasper spots the Paradiso’s manager talking with Levon and Elf in the bar below. How do I get to them?

‘So the question is, Jasper,’ says Backslapper, ‘can your current management take you up to the next level?’

Jasper finds the wrong stairs. ‘His only friend was his guitar,’ a teacher at the Conservatory explains. ‘His graduation piece was called “Who Shall I Say Is Calling?”. It dripped sound …’

‘Coke, weed, Dexy, Purple Hearts,’ murmurs Mr Toad, by Jasper’s ear. ‘Satisfaction guaranteed. Ever tried acid?’

‘Or will they be puking cold shit?’ asks Queen Juliana. ‘The skeleton in the family cupboard – on Fenklup ! Priceless!’

‘You and I made love on Monday.’ A woman’s painted her face like a Rorschach ink-blot test. ‘Astrally. Yes. It was me.’

Jasper’s in the Gents, washing his hands. He tells Miss Rorschach, ‘Perhaps it was Eric Clapton.’

‘Now you’re famous,’ begins Big Smiler, down in the bar, ‘all sorts of leeches’ll come crawling out of the woodwork …’

‘Thijs Ogtrot from Hitweek ,’ says an undertaker’s face. ‘You wrote “Darkroom” in the same acid session where John Lennon wrote “Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds”. True or false?’

‘… and they’ll want favours or money,’ adds Big Smiler. ‘You’ll need to get better at saying “ Rot op! ”’

‘The question is,’ says Backslapper, ‘how long can a solo genius like Jasper de Zoet prosper in the confines of a band?’

‘ Who did you score off?’ Mr Toad’s face is knitted up. Anger. ‘Not a podgy little Belgian fuck with a quiff like Tintin?’

The Lecturer offers him a joint. ‘So, the dean wants you to give a lecture for Founders’ Day …’

‘Bloody Nora.’ Dean staggers up. ‘In the bogs just now was these two blokes snoggin’ ’n’ gropin’ each other! Uuuuuugh … ’

‘… about anything you like,’ says the Lecturer. ‘“Art, Love and Death”, “Despatches from Soho”, “Counterculture” … Do say yes. ’

‘Thijs Ogtrot from Hitweek ,’ says an undertaker’s face. ‘Your father wants you cut out of your grandfather’s will. True or false?’

‘So all I need is five hundred guilders up front to pay for the studio,’ says Big Smiler. ‘Cash is best.’

Jasper sees the Rorschach woman with her hand inside Griff’s shirt. ‘On Monday we made love astrally, but tonight …’ she whispers in Griff’s ear, and burrows her hand downwards.

‘Take your producer’s fee from future sales,’ says Big Smiler. ‘Big bucks, guaranteed. What have you got to lose?’

The March night is coal grey, indigo and starlit. The air is crisp and cool along Prinsengracht. Spring’s nearly here. A bicycle bell rings. Jasper steps out of the way: the cyclist leaves a low ‘Taak ’ as he passes. A song from long ago and a delicious whiff of bitternbollen fried meatballs leak from an amber-lit bar. Jasper pauses at the corner of Amstelveld and holds up his thumb to test the half-moon’s blade. It’s comfortable being an Amsterdammer again. The English distrust duality. They equate it with potential treachery. In the Netherlands, having a German, French, Belgian or Danish parent is no big deal. The city’s bells begin their midnight round. Iron boom by bronze chime, stroke by stroke, the proud houses and the churches fade away. The conservatory and the poky room above the bakery in Raamstraat, where Jasper lodged for three years, vanish. Going, going, gone are the squalid brothels, shipping offices and scruffy cafés; the venerable hotels, fussy restaurants and concert halls; the Paradiso, the Rijksmuseum and the ARPO studios; Dam Square, the shuttered-up souvenir shops and the Anne Frank House; maternity wards and cemeteries; Vondelpark, its lake and chestnuts, lindens and birches, not yet in leaf; the city’s sleepers and the city’s insomniacs; even the bells in their towers that weave this impossible vanishing act melt out of reality until all that remains of Amsterdam’s ancient future is a brackish marsh, swept by gales, home only to eels and gulls, hut-dwellers with leaky boats and hungry dogs …