Utopia Avenue

by David Mitchell

  Mr. Jones’s sentiments were echoed by Rod Dempsey, a close friend of Dean Moss, who sported a Union Jack jacket. “It’s a scandal that toffs at the Foreign Office won’t pull their fingers out to clear the name of a British artist of Dean’s caliber. Would they be so blasé if he had gone to Eton?” When I asked Mr. Dempsey if he intended to return tomorrow, he avowed that he would return for as long as it took.

  Whether or not Utopia Avenue’s music is one’s cup of tea, Your Humble Finch feels a grudging respect for the gathering in Three Kings Yard. They prove that British youth can make its opinion known without resorting to the disgraceful scenes erupting all over Europe. If the vigil stays within the four-square posts of the law, I concur with the placard waved by one demonstrator with a shock of pink hair: PAWS OFF DEAN MOSS!

  “A Rolling Stone is not my idea of a knight in shining armor,” says Elf’s dad. “Felix Finch, however, could make a big difference.”

  “It’s a miracle the fuzz haven’t put the boot in,” says Bea.

  “ ‘Fuzz’?” Their dad acts the horrified father. “The ‘boot’?”

  “I’m surprised the friendly bobbies”—Bea acts coy—“haven’t dispersed the protesters. Have you met this Rod Dempsey, Elf?”

  “Only in passing.” Elf keeps to herself that Dempsey is Dean’s drug dealer, and that he once made an artful pass at her.

  “Will you be attending this ‘vigil’?” asks Elf’s dad. “Because I’d be much happier if you stayed well away.”

  “Today I’m only thinking about Mark.”

  * * *

  —

  EDGBASTON CREMATORIUM IS a pebble-dash shoebox-shaped building, with a mock-Greek portico bolted onto the front and a tall chimney at the rear. Spruces fail to conceal an industrial estate, the motorway flyover, and six identical tower blocks. To Elf, these Homes in the Sky look like vertical prisons. Waiting in the reception area is Imogen’s friend Bernie Dee, whom Elf remembers from her sister’s wedding. She enfolds Imogen in a hug. “Oh, my dear. My poor, poor dear.” The silver cross around her neck could belong to a vampire hunter.

  Two doorways are labeled “Memorial Room A” and “Memorial Room B.” Slot-in letters on the A door read KIBBERWHITE 3:30 P.M. B reads SINCLAIR 4 P.M. A full-throated rendition of “When the Saints Go Marching In” booms out of A. After it ends, the doors fly open and at least a hundred people spill out into the afternoon. Most look and sound Caribbean. Tropical colors are mixed with black. “Bessie always loved a damn good singalong,” says a lady. Her friend replies, “She joined in at the end, I swear. I knew it was Bessie by how off-key it was…”

  After the Kibberwhite party has gone, the waiting room feels bleaker than before. Bernie Dee, Elf’s mum, and Mrs. Sinclair make small talk. Imogen and Lawrence sit in silence.

  A few minutes before four o’clock, the funeral director ushers the nine mourners into a room with space for thirty or forty. The lighting is harsh and the floor is scuffed wood. The walls are tobacco-stained white. A piano sits in the corner. Mark’s small coffin rests on a conveyor belt. Like a parcel in a lost and found office. A nearly new blue rabbit sits on the coffin. Elf’s mum holds Imogen’s arm and guides her to the front. Elf wishes the sight didn’t make her think of Imogen’s wedding day. The roses are white.

  * * *

  —

  BERNIE DEE’S ADDRESS is well crafted and well meant but is, ultimately, based on the “God works in mysterious ways” message. Not that I know how to attach meaning to Mark’s death. “As we bid goodbye,” concludes Bernie Dee, “to the body that housed Mark’s soul for so brief a time, we’ll listen to a favorite hymn of Imogen’s.” She looks at the funeral director. He lowers a needle onto crackly vinyl and a choir begin, “O God, Our Help in Ages Past.”

  Imogen’s voice is shaky but loud. “No.”

  Everybody, funeral director included, looks at her.

  “No. Stop playing that. Please.”

  The funeral director lifts the needle.

  Bernie is worried. “Is there a mistake, Immy?”

  “I—I asked for it, but…it’s the wrong choice.” Imogen swallows. “Mark should’ve had a lifetime of music. Nursery rhymes, pop songs, dances, and all sorts of music. I don’t want him to, to leave us…to…a hymn you play at funerals.”

  “We didn’t bring any other records,” says her mum.

  “Elf.” Imogen turns to her sister. “Play something.”

  Elf’s nervous. “I haven’t prepared anything, Ims.”

  “Please. Anything. Something for Mark.” She’s fighting back tears. “Please.”

  “Of course, Ims. Of course I will.” Elf walks over to the piano. The funeral director lifts the lid for her. She sits on the stool. But what? “A Raft and a River”? She could make a decent stab at the Moonlight Sonata from memory, but any mistakes would stand out a mile. Scarlatti’s too lively. Then Elf remembers the composition she wrote at the Cricketer’s Arms last night. She’s carrying it in her handbag, in case a set of lyrics occurs to her. Elf puts the exercise book on the music holder and plays the still untitled sixty-six bars from beginning to end. Playing it more slowly makes it change color. It lasts perhaps five minutes. As Elf plays, Imogen recovers her composure. She goes over to Mark’s coffin and kisses the lid. Lawrence does the same. They hold each other and cry. The two bereaved grandmothers join them, with Bea.

  Elf’s composition comes to an end.

  Its ghost fills the silence that follows.

  Imogen tells the funeral director, “It’s time.”

  Elf walks over and takes the blue bunny.

  Everyone’s fingertips rest on the white coffin.

  The funeral manager presses a discreet switch.

  The conveyor belt clunks into life.

  The smooth lid slides from under their fingers.

  Mark’s coffin passes through a curtain.

  Beyond, a mechanical screen is lowered.

  Even the bluebells lasted longer.

  * * *

  —

  ON THURSDAY MORNING, Elf meets Bethany in the spiral rush of Piccadilly Circus tube station. Londoners pour from the diagonal tunnels each minute, each with tragedies, histories, comedies, and romances. Shoeshiners work hard and quickly. Newspaper sellers work through their queues at high speed. Bethany is wearing a stylish blue hat, silk scarf, and Jackie Onassis sunglasses.

  “I almost didn’t recognize you,” says Elf.

  “That’s the idea. A reporter was lurking outside Moonwhale. He tried to shake down the bicycle courier for gossip. How’s Imogen?”

  “She’s at Richmond with my parents.” Elf looks for words. “Grief is a boxer, my sister’s a punchbag, and all we can do is watch.”

  “Then watch,” says Bethany, “stitch up her cuts and help her get to her feet again when she’s flat out.”

  Elf nods. There’s nothing else to say. “So. What’s happening with Levon and Dean?”

  “They’re all over the press like a rash. This, from the Post…” Bethany has an article pasted into a notebook. Under a picture of Dean onstage at McGoo’s:

  ‘NOT WITHOUT MY HONOUR!’

  The saga of heart-throb Dean Moss, arrested in Rome on Sunday on a dubious drugs charge, took an EXTRAORDINARY new twist yesterday when the Utopia Avenue guitarist refused to buy his repatriation by signing a confession of guilt. Mr. Moss, who penned the Top 20 hits “Darkroom” and “Prove It,” insists that the contraband was PLANTED by the arresting detective. Charges of fiscal impropriety against band manager Levon Frankland have already been DROPPED. In a statement issued via his lawyer, Mr. Moss explained his courageous decision: “I’d do almost anything for this ordeal to be over and see my friends, my family and my country—but signing a false confession for a crime I didn’t commit is beyond the pale.”

  “I can hear ‘Land
of Hope and Glory,’ ” says Elf.

  “Levon and Freddy Duke can hear cash registers in record shops across the land. Oh, and Ted Silver told me to tell you BBC Radio have a reporter in Three Kings Yard. There’ll be others.”

  “Don’t tell me I’ll be on the lunchtime news.”

  “Lunchtime and dinnertime.”

  Elf thinks of her father eating his sandwich in his office at work. What if I say the wrong thing?

  “I’m giving Amy Boxer the lead interview, if that’s okay.”

  “Fine by me.” Elf thinks of Dean in his cell in Italy. His fate may depend on her getting this right. “I feel out of my depth, Bethany.”

  “You had two thousand Italians eating out of the palm of your hand last Saturday, I’ve been told.”

  “Yes, but that was a performance.”

  “So is this. That’s why we’re meeting early. Let’s find a quiet spot, sit down with a coffee, and work out a few lines…”

  * * *

  —

  ELF ENTERS THREE Kings Yard under its archway, flanked by A&R man Victor French and Moonwhale’s lawyer Ted Silver. The courtyard is packed. A cheer goes up and stays up. Elf suppresses an urge to bolt. Dean needs this. Dozens of people call out her name. In seconds, it becomes a chant: “Elf! Elf! ELF! Elf! Elf! ELF! Elf! Elf! ELF!” Young people. A few older faces. The sharply dressed. Unshaven hippies. “Elf! Elf! ELF! Elf! Elf! ELF!” A smattering of mods. A trio of jugglers. A Westler’s hot dog vendor. A hurdy-gurdy man. Harold Pinter? “Elf! Elf! ELF! Elf! Elf! ELF!” “Smithereens” is playing from an upstairs window. Reporters block Elf’s path: “Arthur Hotchkiss of The Guardian,” says a newshound in a houndstooth jacket. “What are your hopes and fears for the counterculture?” “Elf! Elf! ELF! Elf! Elf! ELF!” He’s jostled out of the picture by a hairless bulldog: “Frank Hirth, Morning Star—what is Utopia Avenue’s view on the struggle of the proletariat?” “Elf! Elf! ELF! Elf! Elf! ELF!” A Jack-the-lad slips in: “Willy Davies, News of the World. What’s yer vital statistics, Elf, and who’s the hunkiest man in pop?” “Elf! Elf! ELF! Elf! Elf! ELF!” Elf swerves away, and an American voice says: “Don’t forget to breathe.” She’s young, Spanish-looking, and beautiful. “Elf! Elf! ELF! Elf! Elf! ELF!” The woman cups her mouth to Elf’s ear. “I’m Luisa Rey, Spyglass magazine, but that doesn’t matter—good luck and don’t forget to breathe.”

  Elf breathes. “Okay.”

  Ted Silver escorts her through the crush to a crate under a lamppost. Victor French puts a mic in her hand. What if I forget my speech? Bethany clasps her shoulder: “You memorize entire folk songs word-perfectly, remember. You can do this.” Elf nods and climbs onto the crate. The “Elf! Elf! ELF! Elf! Elf! ELF!” becomes another cheer, louder and longer than the first. A needle is lifted off “Smithereens.” Hundreds of faces look back. Dozens of cameras click. People watch from the surrounding windows. She quietens the roar with a hand gesture.

  Breathe. “Morning, all.” Elf’s voice issues from an amp lashed to the lamppost. Her words echo off the walls of Three Kings Yard. “I’m Elf Holloway from Utopia Avenue and I’m here—”

  A woman shouts, “We know ’oo you are, Elf darlin’!”

  “Oh, hi, Mum, thanks for showing up.” Elf’s quip gets a warm laugh. “Seriously, everyone. Thanks for your support. I’m here because my friend Dean is rotting in jail in Rome…”

  A braying chorus of “Boooooo!” and “Shame!”

  “…where he has been beaten and denied access to a lawyer. The Italian police called him a drug smuggler.” Short sentences, Bethany advised. Hemingway not Proust. “That—is—a—lie. Dean was given a choice. Confess to that lie and walk free—or refuse to sign the confession and return to his cell. He refused.”

  A medium-size roar and nodding, approving heads.

  “Some call Dean Moss a publicity seeker. Some say Dean goaded the Italian police into arresting him, for the publicity. That—is—nonsense. Who, of sound mind, would risk getting banged up in a foreign prison for years for a few column inches?”

  A man is aiming a mic at her, adjusting levels on a box.

  “Some call Dean Moss a yob and a thug. That—is—a—lie. Dean hates violence. Let’s follow his example—please. For Dean, be friendly to the embassy staff. This isn’t their doing. Likewise, give the police guards an easy day’s work. They’re Londoners too.”

  Don’t forget to breathe. “That’s what Dean Moss isn’t. Here’s what Dean Moss is. He’s a working-class boy. He knows what it’s like to not have enough. Dean is no saint, but he’d give you the shirt off his back if you needed it more than him. He’s decent. He’s kind. He’s a writer of songs that show life in its pain and its glory. Songs that tell us we’re not alone. Dean is my friend. So please. Can we bring our friend home?” A mighty roar fills the courtyard.

  “Can we bring him home?”

  The crowd replies with a bigger roar.

  Third time is the charm: “Can—we—bring—him—home?”

  The roar is mighty. Elf steps off the crate. The crowd surges forward. Cameras click and flash in her face. Ted Silver, Victor French, and Bethany and a few big guys Bethany has dragooned form a phalanx to get Elf out of Three Kings Yard and into the taxi. It moves off. Elf’s heart is beating like crazy. “How did I do?”

  SOUND MIND

  Anthony Hershey’s house is a big Edwardian residence on Pembridge Place. The wall is high and topped with spikes. Two bouncers at the wrought-iron gates check off partygoers’ names on a list before letting them in. Jasper sees the top of a striped marquee in the back garden. “Someone’s not short of a few bob,” says Griff. “House like that in a posh street like this…what d’you reckon, Deano? Hundred grand?”

  “Easy. Cop a load o’ them cars. An Ace Cobra. Austin-Healey…a Jensen Interceptor. D’yer think they’re all his?”

  “Wipe the drool off your chin,” Elf tells him. “When the new album sells a million, you’ll be able to buy your very own.”

  “On our royalties? I’ll be lucky if I can stretch to a rusty Mini. D’yer reckon there’ll be film stars ’n’ that at this party?”

  “Stands to reason,” says Elf. “He is a director. How officially single are you, again? I lose track, rather.”

  Dean acts being shot in the heart. Comedy, thinks Jasper. “The only film of his I saw was that Gethsemane,” says Dean. “All that stuff about Jesus ’n’ drug addicts ’n’ whatnot. Over my head.”

  “The film club at Amsterdam conservatory put on an Anthony Hershey retrospective,” says Jasper. “His best work is phenomenal.” Jasper checks the time: 5:07. “Levon’s late.”

  “Maybe he’s stuck in a Colm-plicated situation,” says Griff. Elf winces. Dean half smiles and growls. Jasper’s not sure what’s going on but is saved by a taxi pulling up. It’s Levon. He pays and jumps out. “Wow, you’re all here on time.”

  “What d’yer take us for?” huffs Dean. “A bunch o’ knob-head rock stars who think the world’s at our beck ’n’ call?”

  Irony? Jasper doesn’t find out because the others take full note of Levon’s sharp new suit with turquoise trimmings.

  Griff wolf-whistles softly.

  Elf says, “Someone’s been shopping.”

  Dean feels the lapel. “Savile Row?”

  “You have to look the part to cut the deals, my friends. How’s ‘Roll Away the Stone’ shaping up?”

  “We’re up to take twenty,” says Jasper.

  Levon makes a face Jasper can’t read. Disappointment? “Soon is good, folks. Victor’s serious about it being a single.”

  “Tell him he’ll hear it when its melodic genius is at peak perfection,” states Dean. “It’ll be worth it.”

  Levon lights a cigarette. “Please don’t blow the album budget on one tune. Your credit with Ilex is better now Paradise is in the Top Thirty, but
it’s no bottomless overdraft.”

  “Looks like the bagpipes and Bulgarian choir are out, Dean,” says Elf. “So why are we here?” She nods at the Hershey house. “Bethany didn’t have any details. We’re thinking ‘soundtrack.’ ”

  “Or,” says Dean, “did Mr. Hershey see my rugged good looks in the papers last month and think, There’s my leading man?”

  “Aye, that’ll be it,” says Griff. “He’s making The Ugly Wanker from the Black Lagoon, and thought, He won’t need makeup.”

  “Ooh, yer bitch,” says Dean. “Or does Hershey want the band in a film, like the Italian guy who put the Yardbirds in Blow-up?”

  “Michelangelo Antonioni,” says Levon. “Elf’s barking up the right tree—soundtrack. Think of today as a pre-interview for a job yet to be defined. Enjoy yourselves. But not too much.”

  “Why’re yer looking at me when yer say that?” asks Dean.

  “You’re paranoid. Let’s step into the lion’s den, shall we?” Levon looks both ways and crosses the road.

  * * *

  —

  ON JASPER’S SECOND day at Rijksdorp Sanatorium, Dr. Galavazi issued a diagnosis of severe aural schizophrenia and searched for a drug to alleviate the symptoms. Queludrin, a German antipsychotic, emerged as the most effective treatment. The sense of Knock Knock’s tenancy remained, but the “interior hammering” ceased. It felt to Jasper that his mental intruder had been confined to an attic. The sixteen-year-old was now free to take stock of his new surroundings. The psychiatric facility was hidden in a forested area between the town of Wassenaar and dunes fringing the North Sea. A single-story clinic connected two large 1920s houses, which served as Rijksdorp’s male and female wings and housed a total population of only thirty. A high wall surrounded the site and the gate was guarded. Residents’ private rooms could not be locked, though NIET STOREN signs were generally respected. Jasper’s top-floor room was furnished with a bed, a desk, a chair, a cupboard, shelves, and a washbasin. The mirror was removed at his insistence. The barred window looked onto canopies of trees.