Дэвид Митчелл - Utopia Avenue

‘Totally. The pilot’s got one foot on the gas and one on the brake, so when he releases the brake, the plane is hot off the—’

The passengers were pressed back as the Comet 4 lurched forward. A ‘ woooooo ’ filled the cabin and Dean found Elf’s fingers digging into his wrist … Everything juddered, rain-beads on the window became rain-streaks, the floor tilted upwards, the horizon tilted down, the aeroplane lifted, Elf muttered, ‘ Oh my God oh my God oh my God … ’ Below, depots, a multi-storey car park, trees, a reservoir, the M4 and trunk roads, dropped … A soggy life-size model of England; the snaking Thames, Richmond Park, the ark-like glasshouse in Kew Gardens … then the window went misty; the fuselage shook as if gripped and shaken by a giant hand. Elf asked, ‘Is that normal?’

‘Just a little turbulence,’ said Levon. ‘It’s fine.’

Dean tapped Elf’s hand. ‘Elf … my wrist?’

‘Oh, God, sorry. It looks like a dog bit you. Oh … Jesus, look – at – that !’ They saw clouds from above. Sunlit, snow-white and mauve; whipped, rumpled and steel-brushed …

‘Ray ain’t never going to believe this,’ said Dean.

‘How would you capture that,’ asked Elf, ‘musically?’

‘Jasper,’ said Dean, ‘yer’ve got to see this. Really.’

Jasper, if he heard Dean, ignored him. So Dean and Elf watched the clouds. ‘That’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever, ever seen,’ said Elf.

‘Me too.’ A slight tickling sensation alerted Dean to a strand of Elf’s hair caught on his stubble. He gently untangled it. ‘I’ll return this to its rightful owner.’

Two cops from the snatch squad sit with the band in the back of the police van. It’s similar to a Black Maria on the inside, Dean notes. Benches run along the walls and light comes only through a thick grille along the top of the driver’s compartment. Dean’s midriff, arse and groin are already throbbing with future bruises. His hands are still cuffed. The guards light up. They have handguns. ‘Hey, pal,’ Dean asks. ‘ Amico. Cigarette, per favore ?’

The guard’s amused head-shake means, ‘ “Amico”? Really? ’

‘That money in your bag,’ Griff asks Levon. ‘It is legit?’

‘Entirely,’ says Levon. ‘But it’s not in my bag any more.’

‘Wasn’t carrying it all in cash a bit risky?’ asks Griff.

‘If you think carrying cash is risky,’ Levon retorts, ‘try accepting a cheque from a foreign promoter you’ve never worked with. Watch it get magically cancelled by the time you’re home.’

‘That copper knew yer had it,’ says Dean, ‘and which bag yer were carrying it in too. Bloody fishy, if yer ask me.’

Levon sighs. ‘Yup. Only Enzo knew I had it.’

Griff asks, ‘Why would our own promoter rat us off?’

‘Enzo keeps the net profit on five sold-out theatre shows. The captain gets a juicy slice. Everything’s hunkydory. Fuck it. I should’ve brought Bethany with us to spirit the money home separately. Getting fleeced in showbiz is the price of admission, but I thought I’d paid my dues. Now, if Enzo swoops in to straighten this out, I’ll owe him an apology. But if he stays AWOL, we’ll know.’

Nobody speaks for a minute or so. ‘Thank God Elf took the early flight,’ says Dean. ‘Thank God for that.’

‘You’re not wrong,’ says Griff.

The police van thumps over a pothole.

‘Money’s only money,’ says Jasper. ‘We’ll make more.’

‘Could Ted Silver the two thousand back?’ asks Griff.

‘This is Italy,’ states Levon. ‘Our case might get to court by nineteen seventy-five, if we’re lucky. Seriously. No, the best scenario is a swift deportation.’

‘What’s the worst scenario?’ asks Dean.

‘Let’s not think about it, but unless someone from your embassy is telling you it’s safe, sign nothing . Remember. The Italians invented police corruption.’

The four step out of the van, blinking and dazzled, in the walled yard of a police station. It’s an ugly one-storey building with a flat roof. Dean stumbles. Griff steadies him. Beyond the barbed-wire-topped wall they see a motorway bridge, a factory chimney, and a housing block. A guard shoos them inside. Every last person in the waiting area, from ten-year-olds to priests to pregnant women to the desk sergeant is puffing on a cigarette. Conversation ceases and heads turn to look at the exotic foreigners. The party is led through a blast-proof door into a processing room. Captain Ferlinghetti awaits. ‘ Allora , you like my hotel?’

‘It’s a shit-hole,’ says Dean, fake-amiably. ‘D’yer know that word? “Shit-hole”? Full of shits. Like you lot.’

‘Cool it, Dean,’ mutters Levon. ‘Just cool it.’

‘You all is held for violations of currency, and you –’ he smirks at Dean ‘– for assaulting police officers.’

‘Piss off. You assaulted me. ’

‘Who believe a criminal, thief, liar? Empty pockets here.’ He indicates four shallow wooden boxes on the counter.

‘You’ve already stolen two thousand dollars off us,’ says Griff. ‘How do we know we’ll ever see our stuff again?’

‘No. You steal from the people of Italy.’

‘Captain Ferlinghetti,’ says Levon, ‘please call Enzo Endrizzi. He’ll explain the misunderstanding.’

Ferlinghetti displays a weakness for gloating. ‘Who is “Enzo Endrizzi”?’ His grin says, I’m lying and I don’t give a shit that you know I’m lying – which means, Dean guesses, that their promoter set them up. Levon, Griff and Jasper, meanwhile, have emptied their pockets as instructed. Dean asks, ‘How’m I s’posed to empty my bloody pockets with my hands tied, Captain Genius?’

‘Is true. So, I empty the pockets.’ The captain comes around to Dean’s side of the counter via a liftable flap.

‘Yer could just take the cuffs off,’ points out Dean.

Ferlinghetti turns Dean’s jacket pocket out over the tray. A few coins rattle out – and a misshapen lump wrapped in tinfoil.

What the bloody hell’s that? ‘That ain’t mine.’

‘Is from your pocket. I see it fall. My sergeant see, also.’

The desk sergeant juts out his lower lip. ‘ Sì .’

Ferlinghetti unwraps the tinfoil. Inside it is a lump of hash. The chief’s eyes widen like a bad actor’s. ‘Cannabis? I hope is not.’

Now Dean’s worried. ‘Yer put it there yerself!’

Ferlinghetti sniffs the lump. ‘Smell like cannabis.’ He scrapes it with his thumbnail and dabs his tongue. ‘Taste like cannabis.’ He shakes his head. ‘Is cannabis. Is bad. Very bad.’

‘We demand a lawyer,’ states Levon, ‘and consular access to the British and Canadian embassies. Immediately.’

Ferlinghetti’s scoffs, ‘ Pfff. I s Italia. Is Sunday.’

‘Telephones, lawyers, ambassadors. We know our rights.’

The captain leans over the counter. ‘Here is not London, is Roma. I decide “rights”. I say –’ he flicks Levon’s nose ‘– no .’

Levon jerks his head back at the oddness of the attack. The deputy starts to prod Dean down a corridor.

‘Oy!’ Dean realises that there may be worse things in store than indignity. ‘Where’re yer taking me?’

‘Private suite,’ the captain tells him. ‘in the Hotel Shit-hole.’

‘Sign nothing, Dean,’ Levon yells after him. ‘ Nothing .’

The Italian promoter was not waiting for the band at Arrivals, so Levon went off to find a telephone kiosk to call the Endrizzi office. Dean’s first impression of Italians was that they smiled more often and more brightly than the British. Their hair was better, their clothes more stylish, and they spoke with hands, arms and eyes as well as words. He watched two big macho guys greet each other with a peck-kiss, peck-kiss on either cheek. ‘On the bright side,’ Griff muttered, in a voice too low for Elf to hear, ‘if Italian men are mostly gay, it leaves the field wide open, like.’