Utopia Avenue

by David Mitchell

  Elf put on her dressing-gown, went to her piano, got a sheet of manuscript paper, wrote out the C, F, B flat, and E sequence, then let the topography of the waltz rise up again…There. The first half was very close to how the dream-pianist had performed it. The third quarter needed more guesswork. Elf played a few chords as quietly as she could. By the final quarter, the milk float had jingle-jangled up Livonia Street. Elf had to compose the final bars herself, using the musical logic of the first half. Then it was done. Three pages of music. Elf played the piece through, knowing it was finished.

  “Morning, Wombat.” Bruce appeared. “That’s pretty.”

  “Sorry I woke you. A song arrived in my sleep.”

  Bruce shuffled over, yawned, and peered at the manuscript. “Has it got a name?”

  It had, Elf discovered. “ ‘Waltz for Griff.’ ”

  Bruce made a face. “Guess I’ll have to get myself into a near-fatal accident on the M1, too. ‘Ballad of Bruce,’ you can call mine.”

  * * *

  —

  A FORTNIGHT AFTER the funeral, Levon drove the band back up to Hull to see Griff. The visit was not a success. They passed the Blue Boar but none of them had the heart to suggest a stop. Griff was out of hospital and living at his parents’ house. His dad, a bus driver, was out at work, covering a colleague’s illness. Griff’s mum was shriveled by grief and anxious about Griff’s state. He never left the house, barely left his room, and didn’t want to speak with anyone. She served them cakes and tea in the front parlor. Elf helped her arrange the flowers. Griff came downstairs. His bruising was much better, the plaster was off, and his hair was starting to grow, but his humor and curiosity were gone. His answers were curt.

  “Any thoughts about coming back at some point?” asked Levon.

  Griff just looked away, lit a cigarette, and shrugged.

  “It’s a bloody long drive for a shrug,” said Dean.

  “Didn’t fookin’ ask you to come,” replied Griff.

  “We don’t want to rush you,” said Levon, “but—”

  “Why are you fookin’ here, then?”

  “McGoo’s in Glasgow offered us the third Saturday next month,” Levon explained. “Four weeks from now. Good money. Great exposure. If we do it, I think I can persuade Ilex to rush out ‘Mona Lisa’ as a single. But we’d need to tour the living bejesus out of it in March. I know you’re in mourning. It’s not fair to ask you. But we’ve got to know. Are you on board or not?”

  Griff shut his eyes and sank back into the armchair.

  A motorbike drove by. Elf remembered Dean’s Nan’s house in Gravesend. That was a happier place in happier times.

  “Can we do anything that’d help you back?” asked Levon.

  Griff made no reply.

  Elf heard a train in the distance.

  “What would Steve want you to do?” asked Jasper.

  Elf flinched at the rawness of the question.

  Griff stared at Jasper, murderously.

  Jasper looked back as if they were discussing the weather.

  A minute may have passed.

  “Fook off,” said Griff, and left the room.

  They drove back to London in near silence. Elf thought how quickly the Wheel of Fortune spins. The future of Utopia Avenue was suddenly up in the air. Yet a week before Bruce had sold an option on his song “Whirlwind in Your Heart” to Andy Williams’s company for $800. It was only an option, but the money was real.

  It was late when Elf finally got home. Bruce poured her a glass of wine, massaged her feet, and listened to her sad account of the sad day. Elf had a bath and they went to bed.

  * * *

  —

  DEAN’S BASS HANGS loose while he plays his harmonica thirstily, texturing the notes by flapping his palm over the vents. The sound loops-the-loop in the low cavern of McGoo’s, a winged solo with teeth, and Elf vamps the bass line on the piano. Griff keeps time with rim-shots and Jasper plays his Stratocaster like a rhythm guitar. The crowd’s gripped. It’s the best feeling—you write a song—you work on it—you polish it—you tweak it—you play it—you watch hundreds, thousands, more thousands inhabit it…Holy cow, I love what I do. There’ll be adjustments, but Elf knows that “Prove It” will make the next LP. If Ilex want a next LP. Elf doesn’t want to jinx the future by assuming there is one, though this show is giving her hope that Utopia Avenue is properly back—and, somehow, better than before. Word will get back to Victor French. Having Griff back behind the drum kit gives her hope, too. She looks at the drummer. He’s still not playing Dean’s heavier numbers with quite the thump he used to, but he’s doing well…

  * * *

  —

  LEVON TRIED TO speak to Griff in the first week of February. Griff refused to come to the phone. Levon sent a telegram asking him to put a call through to Moonwhale. Griff did not reply. Levon drove back to Hull—again—with Elf. When they arrived, Griff’s mum was in floods of tears. Griff had slipped out of the house two days previously, leaving only a note in his dyslexic handwriting that might have read, Gone away for a bit don’t worry, Pete—but it was hard to be sure. None of his friends or family in Hull knew where he was—in fact, they had hoped he’d gone back to London. Levon left a letter with his dad to give Griff if he came back. It gave Griff a deadline of Friday to tell them if he wanted to carry on in the band or not. If they didn’t hear from him, they would assume it was a no and audition for a replacement. Elf and Levon began the long drive back to London for the second time in ten days.

  At lunchtime on Thursday, Elf’s telephone rang as she staggered into her flat with her and Bruce’s laundry. “Hello?”

  Pips peeped, a coin clunked, and a Yorkshireman said, “Eh up.”

  “Griff?”

  “Elf.”

  “Are you leaving the band?”

  “Don’t be soft. Why? Do you want me out?”

  “Don’t you be soft. None of us does. But you vanished.”

  “And now I’ve unvanished.”

  “Have you told Levon and the others?”

  A pause. “Could you tell ’em?”

  “Uh—sure. I’ll try. Levon’s been out of town and Jasper and Dean might have left. It’s great news. But…”

  “But what?”

  “We thought we’d lost you. Why did you change your mind?”

  A pause. Elf hears the noise of a pub.

  “I…worked out what Steve’d want me to do.”

  Elf waited for Griff to tell her, but he didn’t. “Okay.”

  “Are you rehearsing at Pavel’s today?”

  “Yes.” Elf looked at the clock.

  “See you there, then. Usual one o’clock kickoff?”

  “Whoa, wait—are you here in London?”

  “Aye. The Duke of Argyll.”

  “Round the corner?”

  “Money’s going.” The pips peeped.

  * * *

  —

  DEAN’S HARMONICA FRAYS at the end of the solo, McGoo’s roars, and Dean takes up his bass again, pleased as hell with himself because there are few prizes as hard-won and golden as the approval of six hundred Scots, especially if you’re English. He checks with Elf—who nods, Ready—and Dean’s bass line comes in over her left hand, freeing her up for the next verse. In folk music, there is an element of acting in character: Elf, after a lengthy solo, would need to summon up the song’s character again and switch from soloist to wronged ex-virgin, highwayman, whaler—and the audience would be required to play along with the artifice. If “Prove It” is working, it’s because Elf is singing as herself and from her exposed heart. This is why it’s painful and this is why it’s powerful. She looks at the Pictish Queen and tells her true story of love, betrayal, and loss:

  One Wednesday morning she ironed his shirts,

  When she
heard her own song on the radio.

  “How dare you?” she cried; “Calm down,” he said,

  “I taught you all that you know—and

  Prove that it’s yours, if you can, go ahead —

  Just prove it—in court—just prove it.”

  * * *

  —

  “SO YER BACK,” Dean said to Griff at Pavel Z’s. Elf hadn’t been able to reach him or Jasper that lunchtime and could only leave a message for Levon with Bethany at Moonwhale. Now all three arrived at Pavel’s bar at once.

  Pavel Z was drying glasses with a cloth.

  Griff was adjusting his drum stool. “Aye.”

  Levon shot Elf a glance: Did you know?

  Her look told him, Yes, but just go with the flow.

  Griff tightened a wingnut.

  Elf played a few Bill Evans chords on the Steinway.

  “Are you fit enough to travel?” asked Levon.

  Griff played a quick cascade around his kit, thwacking the cymbal last of all. “I’d say I am. Are you?”

  Dean and Levon turned to Jasper.

  The heroes of Poland watched from the wall.

  Light fell in a bright curtain through the skylight.

  Griff took out a cigarette and looked for matches.

  Jasper walked over and flicked open his Zippo.

  “Obliged.” Griff leaned forward, Dunhill in his mouth.

  “Any time.” Jasper put his lighter away and unclipped his guitar case. “So we’ve all been working on this new thing of Elf’s…”

  * * *

  —

  A BLUR OF days passed. Elf was doing some ironing to Radio 1. The Hollies’ “Jennifer Eccles” was playing. The song was less trippy than the band’s last single, “King Midas in Reverse.” Elf wondered if psychedelia had been a flash in the pan, like Dean had always claimed. Tony Blackburn introduced the next song: “Coming up now is the wonderful Shandy Fontayne, a Texan singer who scored a string of hits three or four years ago. I hope you love her lovely new release, ‘Waltz for My Guy,’ as much as I do, because I think it’ll be one of the hits of sixty-eight…”

  The intro sounded familiar. Elf couldn’t put her finger on why. The C, F, B flat, and E sequence gave the song a jazz feel, but a brass section pulled it in a bluesier direction. Shandy Fontayne came in with the vocal melody. Elf found herself predicting its every turn. At the chorus, the sickening truth smacked her in the face: “Waltz for My Guy” was “Waltz for Griff,” with a brassy production and lyrics. The tune and chords weren’t merely similar: they were exactly the same. This was theft. She smelt singed cotton. Her new Liberty blouse was burning…

  * * *

  —

  BRUCE’S KEY TURNED in the lock. “God, those lads still can’t play ‘Greensleeves’ without murdering it…What’s up?”

  “You stole my song and sold it to Shandy Fontayne.”

  Bruce did an I’m-so-innocent-I-can’t-possibly-have-heard-what-I-thought-you-just-said face. “What?”

  “You sold my song to Shandy Fontayne. Or Duke-Stoker did. Or someone did. Tony Blackburn played it on Radio One.”

  “Stole it?” Bruce looked bemused. “Listen to yourself. Why would I need to steal a song from anyone? Freddy Duke says I can write. Lionel Bart says I can write. Lots of Howie’s clients say I can write. Are they all wrong? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “I’m saying”—Elf felt starved of oxygen—“that ‘Waltz for My Guy’ is ‘Waltz for Griff,’ with lyrics and a cheesy chorus.”

  “I’ve got to tell you, Elf, you’re sounding weird—”

  “Don’t, don’t, don’t. Don’t make this about me. Don’t.”

  Bruce stood there. Out in Livonia Street a dog was barking. “Look. We live, breathe, eat, sleep together. Maybe—maybe—I imbibed a musical phrase or two. Why get hysterical?”

  “Imbibed? It’s the same song!”

  “But ‘Waltz for My Guy’ has a chorus. A brass section. Lyrics. My lyrics. How can it be ‘the same song’? Anyway, you’ve had a million ideas from me.”

  “Name me five. Three. No, name me one.”

  “The lyrics for ‘Unexpectedly.’ ”

  “Are you serious? I asked for your opinion on a few lines. That’s not the same as me taking one of your songs and you only finding out when you hear it on the radio.”

  Bruce shook his head, as if stupefied by the illogic of the female brain. “Why can’t you be pleased? When ‘Darkroom’ hit the Top Twenty, nobody was happier than me. If ‘My Guy’ does half as well as Shandy Fontayne’s people reckon, I—we—will be in clover.”

  It was like arguing with a tennis-ball launcher: pop, pop, pop—always a comeback. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice? Did you think the record would flop? Or did you just not care?”

  Bruce sighed. “Why must you always do this?”

  Elf was supposed to say, Do what? So she didn’t.

  Bruce told her anyway. “You always cast yourself as the injured party. I stole nothing. ‘My Guy’ is a Bruce Fletcher song.”

  Elf was pushed past the point of no return. “Then Bruce Fletcher is a liar and a thief.”

  The hurt-boyfriend mask evaporated off Bruce’s face. “Yeah?” Even his voice had changed. “Prove it.”

  * * *

  —

  JASPER SITS ON the edge of McGoo’s drum-riser and strums his Strat. Dean’s nod means, I’ll bow out after one more round. Elf hits diminished and augmented chords in rapid progression. Tony Blackburn was right about “Waltz for My Guy”: after only two weeks it’s at number eleven in the US charts and number three in the UK, behind only Petula Clark and the Monkees. Last week Shandy Fontayne flew over for Top of the Pops at Lime Grove. Bruce was in Shandy’s entourage in the company of “ravishing model Vanessa Foxton,” according to Felix Finch’s column. According to Dean, who heard it from Rod Stewart, who knows these things, Bruce has been “twanging her G-string” since he got back from Paris.

  Bruce wears Italian suits now. His credit is excellent. The royalties will soon be thundering in. Elf will receive not one penny, cent, pfennig, yen, or lira. Ted Silver, the lawyer for Duke-Stoker Agency and Moonwhale Management, concluded that while the musical similarities between “Waltz for Griff” and “Waltz for My Guy” were strong, a defending lawyer would argue that Elf could not prove that she had composed “Waltz for Griff,” could not prove that Bruce had heard it, and could not prove that Bruce had plagiarized the song. Elf could well be liable for Bruce’s legal fees as well as her own. If she went to the papers with the story, Bruce could countersue for defamation, leaving Elf vulnerable to the loss of two fortunes, not just one. “What should I do, then?” she asked. Ted Silver suggested needles and a voodoo doll.

  Griff, Dean, and Jasper stop playing, leaving Elf to carry “Prove It” home on her piano. McGoo’s hushes so as not to miss a word. The spotlight shines on the piano. Two little dots are reflected in the Pictish Queen’s eyes. Her skin turns gold. So do Elf’s hands…

  A thief needs a fool to ply his trade,

  A gullible fool who’ll trust anyone;

  A lover needs a cure for a serious illness.

  A singer needs a lawyer and a gun.

  “I’ll prove crime pays,” said Romeo, “I will,

  I’ll prove it, I’ll prove it.” He’s proving it still.

  NIGHTWATCHMAN

  Engines churn below the waterline, the grubby sea foams up, and the Arnhem pulls away from the concrete Harwich quay. Jasper feels the deck begin to lift, fall, and tilt with the swell of the open sea.

  “Amsterdam,” says Griff. “Here we come.”

  “Legal dope,” says Dean. “Here we come.”

  “Tolerated, not legal,” Levon corrects him. “Be discreet. Please. Trouble with the cops could impinge on future tour
s.”

  The Arnhem blasts out three honks on its mighty horn.

  “Is it true,” says Griff, “that in the red-light district, the hookers stand in glass cubicles that you see into from the street?”

  “It’s true,” says Jasper.

  “Oh, goody gumdrops,” says Elf. “Dirty mags without the mag.”

  Jasper’s pretty sure she’s being sarcastic.

  “If you go,” Elf tells Dean, “don’t tell me. I don’t want to have to lie to Amy. Actually, I won’t lie to Amy.”

  “Pure as the driven snow, me.” Dean clutches his heart.

  “This is the boat you took every summer?” Levon asks Jasper.

  “Every summer. A driver would pick me up at Ely, drive me to Harwich, and put me aboard. My grandfather was at the other side to take me to Domburg.”

  “And Domburg’s where the de Zoets live?” asks Elf.

  “The de Zoets live in Middelburg, the capital of Zeeland. I used to board with a vicar at Domburg, on the coast.”

  “Why couldn’t yer just stay with yer family?” asks Dean.

  “Family politics,” replies Jasper.

  “Didn’t you mind being sent off across the North Sea, all on your own, to stay with strangers?” says Elf.

  Jasper thought of himself, standing at this railing, buffeted by the same North Sea wind, watching everything he’d ever known flatten into a knobbly smear on the horizon. “Saying no wasn’t an option. I had nowhere else to go. I like ships. I was born on one.”

  “The ruling classes, eh?” says Dean.

  Salty air fills their lungs. Runaway shadows cross the crumpled sea. Gulls hover alongside the Arnhem. “It was an adventure,” says Jasper. “I felt like a boy in a story.”

  * * *

  —

  TRESPASS IN THE blood. Jasper awoke seven years ago, the morning after he and Formaggio had communicated with Knock Knock. He felt a sick dread in his guts and a sharp-knuckled knock-knock-knock-knock-knock-knock at the top of his skull like an angry downstairs neighbor hitting his ceiling with a broom handle. It stopped and started several times a minute, water-torture style, as if bent on destroying Jasper’s sanity. He had no appetite and skipped breakfast. The first period was history but Knock Knock buried Mr. Humphries’s discourse on the Hundred Years’ War so Jasper asked to be excused on the grounds of a migraine. He went to Matron via his room, picking up the “alphabet matrix” Formaggio had made the night before. Matron gave him an aspirin—which had no effect on the knocking—and sat knitting for a while. When she left the room, Jasper asked his tormentor aloud what his price of peace was. The answer was a barrage of KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCKs. Jasper understood that no further correspondence was to be entered into.