Дэвид Митчелл - Utopia Avenue

‘We’re singing in a foreign language too,’ said Elf, wonderingly. ‘Imagine a British audience going this crazy –’ she gestures out through the wings ‘– for an Italian act.’

‘They study the lyrics,’ explained Enzo, ‘they feel the music. Your songs, Elf, they say, “ Life is sad, is joy, is emotions .” Is universal. Jasper, your songs say, “ Life is strange, is wonderland, a dream. ” Who does not feel so, sometimes? Dean, your songs say, “ Life is a battle, is hard, but you is not alone. ” You, Greef, you is a drummer intuitivo . Also, your Italian promoter is a genius.’

A sombre man spoke into Enzo’s ear. Enzo translated, ‘He ask, “Please play a song before they break his theatre.”’

‘We’ve done the whole album,’ said Griff.

‘And all our stash of covers,’ said Dean.

‘Jasper’s new one,’ said Elf. ‘All those in favour?’

The band plus Levon said, ‘Aye.’

‘I’ll introduce it,’ said Dean. ‘Enzo – how do yer say “We love you too” in Italian?’ He had Enzo repeat the phrase until he had it by heart. They filed back onto the stage to be greeted by a Godzilla-sized roar. Jasper strapped on his guitar. Griff took his place. Elf sat at the piano. Dean leaned into his mic: ‘ Grazie, Roma – anche noi vi amiamo … ’

A woman shrieked, ‘ Dean, I want you, baby! ’ or possibly, ‘Dean, I want your baby! ’

‘ Grazie tutti ,’ said Dean. ‘One more song?’

Rome howled, ‘ Sìììììììì! ’ and ‘ Yeeeeeesss! ’

Dean cupped his hand to his ear. ‘ Che cosa? ’

The answer was louder than a Comet 4 taking off.

This is a drug , Dean realised, and I am an addict. He looked at Elf. Her look back said, You charmer. ‘Okay, Roma. You win. This next song really is our very last song tonight …’

A giant groan of disappointment fell to Earth.

‘But, I promise, we’ll come back to Italy very soon.’

The groan pulled out of its dive into a cheer.

‘This is by Jasper. It’s called “Nightwatchman”.’

Champagne corks popped. The perfume of lilies was giddying. Very good friends of Enzo flowed in. Half the city appeared to be a very good friend of Enzo. One of them met Dean in the bathroom and gave him a long line of superb cocaine. A galaxy exploded in Dean’s brain. The champagne turned into purple wine. The changing room became a VIP enclosure in the kind of nightclub Dean once fantasised about, with huge chandeliers, women dripping diamonds, fresh from a scene in a James Bond film. Men chortled over cigars and talked in huddles. An Italian guy from a fresco was whispering into Elf’s ear. She was smiling. Dean posted her a look that said, ‘ Someone’s on the pull, I see ’. Elf’s look back said, ‘ What can I say? ’ Enzo’s very good friend with the cocaine took him to another bathroom for another bump. A jazz trio was playing ‘I Got It Bad And That Ain’t Good’ when Enzo and Levon appeared. They both wore grave expressions. They crouched by Elf and spoke. Elf’s face changed. Her hands covered her mouth. Levon looked sick and haggard. The handsome suitor vanished.

Dean guessed someone had died. He went over. ‘What?’

Elf opened her mouth but couldn’t yet say it.

‘Elf’s nephew,’ said Levon. ‘Imogen’s baby, Mark. A cot death. He died sometime yesterday night.’

The club frolicked on as if none of this had happened.

‘Oh, Jesus,’ said Dean. ‘Twenty-four hours ago?’

‘My assistant she tell me only now,’ insisted Enzo Endrizzi. ‘The telefono between England and Italy, not is good …’

Elf was shaking and breathing heavily. ‘I have to go home.’

‘We’re leaving tomorrow afternoon,’ Levon reminded her.

‘The first flight in the morning,’ Elf told Dean.

Levon looked at Enzo, who nodded. ‘Is possible. My very good friend, he’s the brother of a boss of Alitalia …’

Elf was looking about her, unable to process anything.

‘Let’s get yer back to the hotel,’ Dean told Elf. ‘Yer’ve got to pack ’n’ everything. I’ll sleep on yer sofa, too …’

Evening enters the cell. The slatted rectangle of sky turns orange, then plague-brown. Dean’s body is aching and sore from his beating. A sickly lamp, bolted to the wall above the door, flickers on. Eight o’clock? Nine o’clock? They took Dean’s watch.

Looks like I’m in for the night , thinks the prisoner.

Dean wonders if the others are in solitary, too. The flight the band were due to have boarded will have landed at Heathrow.

Elf will be at Imogen’s house in Birmingham.

I’m in trouble , thinks Dean, but Imogen must be in hell …

Neither Elf nor Dean slept much last night. Elf talked about her three visits to see her tiny nephew, and how Mark gurgled at his aunt on her last visit. She wept. Dean offered to leave, worried that she might prefer to be alone. She asked him to stay. They dozed for an hour or so. Then the taxi arrived.

She’ll think they’re back in London now.

Nobody will have noticed his and Jasper’s absence yet. Griff’s flatmate won’t be raising any alarms. It’ll take Bethany a while to smell a rat tomorrow, but with luck she’ll call Enzo Endrizzi by mid-afternoon. Then the cavalry should be mobilised. I hope. The floor-level hatch slides open. A tray appears. Dean kneels down by the hatch and fires questions out: ‘Oy! Where are my friends? Where’s my lawyer? How long—’

The hatch snaps shut. Footsteps recede.

Two slices of white bread spread with margarine, a plastic cup of tepid water. The bread tastes of paper. The water tastes of crayons. So much for great Italian food.

Time passes. The hatch slides open. ‘ Vassoio ,’ says a man.

Dean crouches down by the hatch. ‘Lawyer.’

The voice repeats itself: ‘ Vas-soi-o .’

‘Ferlinghetti. Fer-lin-ghetti. ’

The hatch snaps shut. Keys jingle. A heavy lock in the door grinds. A big cop with a big nose, big moustache and big gut steps inside. He holds up the tray, points at it and tells Dean, ‘ Vas-soi-o .’

‘ Vassoio . Tray. Got it. Lawyer? Ferlinghetti? Embassy?’

The big cop’s nasal snort means, Dream on.

‘ Grazie mille, Roma. ’ Dean quotes the line Enzo taught him at the Mercurio Theatre. ‘ Anche noi ti amiamo. ’

The cop hands Dean a skimpy roll of skimpy toilet paper, a blanket, and slams the door shut. Dean lies down, hungry for an apple, his guitar, a newspaper, or even a book. Thoughts whisper: What if Günther Marx and Ilex throw yer to the wolves? What if Ferlinghetti decides to send yer down just for a laugh?

The light above the door clicked off. The cell was dark.

A little light entered under the door. That was it.

Why were you such a jealous hypocrite with Amy?

Dean wishes that he hadn’t flown off the handle when he saw Marcus Daly of Battleship Aquarius, drooling over Amy at the 100 Club in Oxford Street two weeks ago. He wishes he hadn’t told Amy to cut the night short, prompting her to reply, ‘Go if you want, but I’m staying,’ and forcing him to leave or to stay and look like a toothless fool. He wishes that when Amy got back – to her own flat – he hadn’t actually said, ‘What time do yer call this?’ As if he was her father, not a lover. Dean wishes, too, he hadn’t started interrogating her like Inspector Moss of Scotland Yard. He wishes he hadn’t called her a ‘Leech with a Typewriter’. He wishes he hadn’t called her a paranoid bitch when she told him she knew about the Dutch girl in Amsterdam. How did she know? Dean wishes he hadn’t flung a marble ashtray into her glass-fronted cabinet, like Harry Moffat on a three-day bender. He wishes he had been man enough to apologise the next day instead of hiding at Chetwynd Mews and letting Amy leave his stuff in a box at Moonwhale. When he went in for a band meeting the day after, Bethany had a look in her eyes and the look said, ‘ coward ’ . Dean could not disagree. It was no way to say goodbye.