Дэвид Митчелл - Utopia Avenue

Jasper walks back down the stairs from Trix’s room to Grafgraversgracht. By the tenth or twelfth flight of steps, he works out his body is in Trix’s bed, far above, yet the steps carry on until the dreamer arrives at an earthen passageway. An old woman is expecting him. She places a finger on her lips – Hush! – and points to a spyhole in the wall. Jasper looks through. Beyond is an ossuary, or a prison cell, or both. Knock Knock, dressed in his ceremonial robe, sits on a whale’s jawbone holding a knife in one hand and a shinbone in the other. The bone is inscribed with notches. Like Robinson Crusoe , thinks Jasper, keeping track of days on his island . Knock Knock’s gaze meets Jasper’s. A mechanism is triggered. The two swap places. Jasper is now a prisoner in the deepest under-cellar of Knock Knock’s mind, with no hope of rescue or escape. He cannot even die his way out. The eye at the spyhole – Knock Knock’s eye – vanishes. Jasper is left alone for eternity to draw the blade across the notched shinbone, like a violin bow …

… and a metallic shriek fills Jasper’s head. He wakes in Trix’s bed to the sound of a tram’s steel wheels. His heart thuds. He’s flooded with relief that he’s not in that doorless ossuary any more. Once the tram has passed, the only sounds are Trix’s breathing, the sigh of rain on Amsterdam’s roofs and canals, the distant boiler of 81 Grafgraversgracht, and night ebbing away. It’s hard to know one from the other.

We trust our lovers not to harm us .

The bells of Osterkerke skim out five plangent chimes. Jasper borrows Trix’s brown furry bathrobe and pads to the bathroom. Ointments, jars of creams and bottles of gloop. Avoiding the mirror, Jasper splashes water onto his face. He feels something he would call ‘change-ache’ but he doesn’t know if it’s a real emotion or not. He goes to Trix’s kitchenette and eats an orange. He boils the kettle on the hob but takes it off the heat before the whistle wakes the lady of the house. He takes his mug of tea to Trix’s table. A silver horse with opal eyes watches him. Lines are buried in the last few hours. Carefully Jasper proceeds to excavate.

A song, a crowd, a coronation,

a merry-go-round, a deal –

a city so improbable,

it’s not exactly real.

Doctor, liar, teacher, leech;

pusher, mystic, hack – they

crashed the gates of Paradise.

I snuck out through the back.

Gravedigger’s night, a sky-blue light,

a chime, the key that turned your lock.

Stairs, the dark, a magic lamp,

a fox who didn’t have to knock.

A cigarette from Istanbul,

a glass of fire and ice –

a clock that wound down months ago.

A clock we wound up, twice.

A silver horse with opal eyes,

incense from Hindustan –

I, who rarely understand,

you, who often can.

You slept on like a tiny bird,

a bell, all’s well, a far-off call –

I slept like a fugitive,

if I slept at all.

A curse, a demon, maybe worse,

a knife, a bone, a notch –

I am the lone nightwatchman.

This is my night watch.

Roll Away The Stone

Six policemen enter the check-in hall at Rome airport followed by a chief who removes his sunglasses and scans the crowd. Dean imagines a gunfight between the cops and the businessmen at the Aeroflot counter, who turn out to be KGB. Screams, havoc, blood. Dean dodges the bullets to rescue that hot signorina in the pink jacket. The KGB guys are shot. The King of Italy pins a medal onto Dean. The signorina in pink takes Dean to meet her father, whose castle sits atop a hundred acres of vineyard. ‘I ’ave no sons of my own,’ he hugs the brave Son of Albion, ‘until today …’

Back in reality, the chief is joined by a photographer.

He looks familiar. He is. He did a shoot of the band at their hotel. He spots Dean, Griff, Jasper and Levon, and points. The chief strides over, his men following in V-formation. He doesn’t look like he’s after an autograph. ‘Uh …’ says Dean. ‘Levon?’

Levon’s speaking with the clerk. ‘One moment, Dean.’

‘I’m afraid we don’t have that long.’

The chief is here. ‘You is the gruppo Utopia Avenue?’

‘How can we help you, Officer?’ asked Levon.

‘I am Captain Ferlinghetti, Guardia di Finanza. This.’ He taps the leather bag Levon has strapped to his chest. ‘What is in?’

‘Documents. Valuables.’

He makes a beckoning gesture. ‘Show.’ Levon obeys. Captain Ferlinghetti removes the envelope. ‘What is?’

‘Two thousand dollars. The band’s earnings from the four gigs. Legal earnings, Captain. Our promoter, Enzo Endrizzi—’

‘ No , is not legal.’ The captain stuffs the money into his pocket. ‘All. You come. Now. There are questions.’

Levon is too stunned to move. They all are. ‘ What? ’

‘Make concerti in Italia, profit in Italia, taxation in Italia.’

‘But our paperwork’s in order. Look.’ Levon unfolds a receipt in Italian. ‘This is from our promoter. It’s officially—’

Captain Ferlinghetti declares: ‘ No. Not valido. ’

Levon changes timbre. ‘Is this a shake-down?’

‘We make arrest here? For me is same.’ The officer addresses the clerk at the Alitalia desk in rapid-fire Italian. Dean catches the word, ‘ passaporti ’.

Nervously, the clerk holds out their passports – which Dean snatches and puts into his jacket pocket.

Captain Ferlinghetti thrusts his face into Dean’s. ‘GIVE.’

I know a bent copper when I see one. ‘Our flight leaves in half an hour. We’re going to be on it. With our bloody money. So—’

Pain splits Dean from his groin. The departure hall spins. Dean’s cheek smacks the floor. A supernova detonates, inches from his face: a flashbulb. Levon remonstrates. Dean’s vision recovers. The photographer is closing in for a floor-level shot. Dean swivels and launches a horse-kick. His heel crunches plastic and lens against jawbone. A scream. Boots pound Dean. He curls into a foetal position, protecting his hands and balls. ‘ Bastard! Bastard! ’ yells Captain Ferlinghetti; or, ‘ Basta! Basta! ’ The kicking stops. Dean’s wrists are yanked behind his back and cuffed. The passports are removed from his jacket. He is hauled onto his feet. Griff is objecting, swearily. Orders are dispensed in Italian. The party is marched off. ‘There’ll be legal consequences,’ Levon was saying, ‘I promise you.’

‘ Conseguenze is only beginning now.’ Captain Ferlinghetti puts his sunglasses on. ‘ I promise you .’

‘What a whirlwind,’ Elf said to Dean. ‘Amsterdam in March, six nights supporting the Hollies … now Italy. By aeroplane.’

Dean peered out. Their plane had reached the top of the runway. ‘Well, “Purple Flames” is number nine there. Did I mention that? Can’t quite recall.’

‘Not for ten minutes, at least,’ says Elf.

‘Levon should’ve held out for first-class tickets.’

‘Right, and I should’ve insisted on Gregory Peck meeting me at the airport to drive me around like Audrey Hepburn.’

Dean checked on Jasper in the aisle seat. He was sickly pale, hiding behind sunglasses and chewing gum. ‘Cheer up, matey. If we drop like a rock we can do bugger-all about it, so why worry?’

Jasper’s fingers gripped the armrest.

The stewardess spoke over the intercom: ‘Please check that your seatbelts are securely fastened … ’ Mighty engines revved. The aeroplane vibrated.

Elf peered past Jasper and Griff to ask Levon, ‘Is this normal?’