The wall in his mind is shattered, and falls away.
Knock Knock bursts out, flooding his brain.
Jasper’s sentience dims to near zero.
Presence reverts to Absence.
WHAT’S INSIDE WHAT’S INSIDE
Nine floors below, a yellow cab prowls West 23rd Street by the Chelsea Hotel, looking for a fare. Elf considers how the metaphor of life as a journey underplays how the traveler herself is changed by the road, by misadventures, by what’s inside. By what’s inside what’s inside. Luisa’s arms encircle her waist and reach up to her seraphinite pendant. She smells of soap. She kisses Elf’s neck. No male stubble to pretend to not mind as it scrubs me raw. Bruce was a hedgehog. A plagiarizing hedgehog. It doesn’t matter. If he hadn’t left, I wouldn’t have her. I wouldn’t have this. Disaster is rebirth, seen from the front. Rebirth is disaster, seen from behind. “You’re that princess,” says Luisa. “The one in the tower. Rapunzel.”
“A New York Rapunzel’s hair wouldn’t reach the pavements.”
“A New York Rapunzel would have a specially made wig.” Luisa coils Elf’s hair around her thumb and whispers in her ear, “Rapunzel, Rapunzel, deja caer tu cabello.”
“I’m defenseless when you speak Spanish.”
“Is that so? In that case…” Luisa whispers in Elf’s ear. “Voy a soplar y puff y volar su casa hacia abajo.”
Elf muffles a giggle. “What’s that?”
“I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your house down.”
“You did that in London.” Elf plants a kiss on Luisa’s thumb. “ ‘O, wonder! How many goodly creatures are there here! How beauteous womankind is! O brave new world, That has such people in’t!’ ”
“Which one’s that?”
“The Tempest. Tweaked. My sister’s playing Miranda and we went through her lines a few days ago.”
The Chelsea Hotel’s door-stepping drug-pusher’s voice travels up to the ninth floor, very faintly. “Hey! Need any uppers, downers, out-of-towners?”
“You know how,” says Elf, “when you go abroad, you learn more about where you’re from than where you’re visiting?”
“Definitely.”
“You, us, this…”
“ ‘Mad, passionate affair.’ ”
“Thank you—this mad, passionate affair is ‘abroad.’ I look back at my old self, before I met you, and I understand her better than I did when I was her.”
“And what have you gleaned, here where the Wild Dykes be?”
“Labels.”
“Labels?”
“Labels. I stuck them on everything. ‘Good.’ ‘Bad.’ ‘Right.’ ‘Wrong.’ ‘Square.’ ‘Hip.’ ‘Queer.’ ‘Normal.’ ‘Friend.’ ‘Enemy.’ ‘Success.’ ‘Failure.’ They’re easy to use. They save you the bother of thinking. Those labels stay stuck. They proliferate. They become a habit. Soon, they’re covering everything, and everybody, up. You start thinking reality is the labels. Simple labels, written in permanent marker. The trouble is, reality’s the opposite. Reality is nuanced, paradoxical, shifting. It’s difficult. It’s many things at once. That’s why we’re so crummy at it. People harp on about freedom. All the time. It’s everywhere. There are riots and wars about what freedom is and who it’s for. But the Queen of Freedoms is this: to be free of labels. Here endeth today’s lesson. You’re giving me a funny look.”
Luisa strokes the pendant, once hers, now Elf’s. “I was just mentally putting a label on you, that’s all.”
“What does it say?”
“ ‘Elf for President.’ ”
They hear a knock-knock on the outer door.
Luisa looks at Elf. “Expecting a visitor?”
“At this hour? God, no.”
Knock-knock. Knock-knock.
“Some stray suitor from the party?” guesses Luisa. “Perhaps with the name LEONARD stitched onto his mittens?”
Knock-knock. Knock-knock. Knock-knock.
“Someone who knows I’m here,” says Elf. “Levon?”
“Answer, then, but look through the eyehole first…”
* * *
—
THE FISH-EYE LENS shows Levon, in his pajamas and dressing gown. His frowning forehead is hugely magnified.
Elf whispers to her lover, “Levon.”
Luisa whispers back: “Shall I hide?”
Elf hesitates. Griff and Dean knew Luisa was going to sleep in Elf’s room; just not in Elf’s bed. “Put a blanket and pillow on the sofa.”
Luisa nods and goes back into the bedroom. Elf opens up. The corridor is margarine yellow.
“Sorry to come knocking at this hour.”
“You wouldn’t be if it wasn’t urgent.”
Levon looks around. “It’s Jasper. He’s acting weird.”
“How can you tell?”
“He just came to my room and insisted that I have the switchboard put a call through to the Netherlands. I said ‘What for?’ He said it was medical. I pointed out how early it is in Europe. He threatened not to play at the Ghepardo if I didn’t do as he said.”
Elf’s shocked. “Jasper said that?”
“Exactly. So I wanted to ask if he went with you to the party on the roof after all—and if he did any.”
Elf shakes her head. “He went to his room and he never showed up. I meant to go and check up on him, but it got late, and I thought, Let him sleep the flight off. Did you place the call to Holland?”
“I had no choice. Jasper told me to wait outside. I did what any diligent manager would, but he spoke Dutch. The name ‘Galavazi’ cropped up a few times. Ring any bells?”
Elf shakes her head. “Sounds more Italian than Dutch.”
“What about ‘Quallydin’ or ‘Quellydrone’?”
“Queludrin?”
“Could’ve been.”
“It’s medication. Jasper took it on the flight. For nerves. A kind of sedative, I guess. How long did the call last?”
“Two or three minutes. After he hung up I asked him what the story was, but he ignored me. I sat in the dark for a few minutes, then decided to come see if you could shed a little light.”
“I wish I could. We could go and knock on his door, but if Jasper doesn’t want to discuss something, he won’t. All I can suggest is to trust in a night’s sleep.”
Levon rubs his tired face. “Guess so. Sorry for dumping this on you at this hour. Breakfast at nine. Tomorrow’s a busy day.”
* * *
—
A CHELSEA MORNING, with sun through yellow curtains and a rainbow on the wall. The clock says 6:59. A big day ahead. The barometer’s needle points to G in CHANGEABLE. Elf lies in bed and listens to the buzz of traffic on 23rd Street. A kind of language. Luisa, asleep, breathes in slow, deep rhythms. Her bare, slung hand rests on Elf’s exposed midriff. Elf likes the contrast between their skin tones. It’s erotic. Luisa smells of toast and thyme. Bruce smelt of cheddar and beer. Angus of salt-and-vinegar crisps. Luisa stirs, stretching like a young, superbly toned cat, yawns, and surrenders to sleep again. To think that someone wanted her dead and she’s just shrugged it off, like I might shrug off a shitty review. Elf remembers the Jasper Question. It’s too early to go and wake him up now. He’ll be asleep. He’ll be all right. It’s the flight. It’s the success. It’s happened so quickly. He’s bound to need a period of adjustment. Wanting to speak to a doctor in Holland isn’t so very weird. That’s where his clinic was. Perhaps Levon cornered him into threatening not to play…Elf thinks of other explanations for Jasper’s ultimatum until sleep pulls her under by her ankles…
* * *
—
…AND SUDDENLY THEY’RE running late. Luisa dresses in jeans, a T-shirt, and jacket. She kisses Elf while Elf’s putting on her makeup, promises to be at the Ghepardo later, and leaves for the S
pyglass office after a ten-day absence. Ten minutes later, Elf finds Levon downstairs in the El Quijote restaurant reading The New Yorker and eating a glazed bread doughnut. Before Elf sits down, he asks, “Should we go and see if Jasper’s up yet?”
“Let him sleep in a little. Beauty sleep…”
“After breakfast, then. Ever had one of these?” He holds up his bread. “It’s a bagel. Have one…” Elf agrees, and in addition orders coffee and a grapefruit. American grapefruit are pink, not yellow. Dean and Griff arrive and order more things they’ve never heard of: grits, hash browns, avocados, and eggs over easy. At 9:40 A.M., Levon and Elf go to Reception to ask Stanley to call Jasper’s room. He goes to the switchboard in the back. A minute later Stanley returns, shaking his head. “No reply.”
Elf and Levon look at each other. “We’ve got a cab coming at a quarter after ten,” Levon tells the manager. “Can I take a key and open up his room? I have to get him out of bed.”
“I’ll come,” replies Stanley. “It’s hotel policy.” They go to the elevators. “It’ll be with us in a jiffy.”
A minute later, they are still waiting.
“Literally, any second now,” says Stanley.
Two minutes later, Levon takes the stairs. Elf follows him. Stanley follows her. “People don’t die in the Chelsea Hotel,” insists the hotelier. “And anyway, Jasper’s in the luckiest room in the building…”
* * *
—
777—SPECKLED GOLD-PAINT NUMBERS screwed onto walnut veneer. Elf knocks and telepathically orders Jasper to appear at the door, squinting at them through his messed-up red hair and a fog of jet lag and sleeping pills. Nobody replies.
Levon knocks harder. “Jasper?”
The only reply is a feeble echo: Jasper?
Elf swats away images of their guitarist in the bath with his veins opened up. She bangs on the door. “Jasper!”
A short man in a morning jacket with rouged cheeks approaches. His female companion towers over him in a ball gown. They say, “Good morning, Stanley.” Her voice is bass: his, alto.
“Mr. and Mrs. Blancheflower,” says Stanley. “We’re well, I trust?”
“Quite well, thank you,” says Mrs. Blancheflower.
“Any trouble?” Mr. Blancheflower nods at the door. “Has a guest checked out before checking out?”
Stanley smiles as if the question can’t possibly be serious. “What a question, Mr. Blancheflower! This is the Chelsea.”
The couple exchange a sad smile at the follies of the world, then continue their journey down the stairs. When the Blancheflowers are out of eyeshot, Stanley puts the key in the door. “I’ll go in first,” says Levon. Something makes Elf touch his arm and insist, “No.” She’s afraid. She goes in. “Jasper?”
No reply. The bathroom, off to the right, is empty—as is the bath. Thank God. Sheets of newspaper are taped over the mirror. A bad sign. “What’s that about?” asks Stanley.
“He just hates reflections.” Elf steels herself to enter the bedroom, but Jasper’s dead body is not lying on the bed, or next to it, or anywhere. “Best pillowcases I ever bought, those,” says Stanley. “From a Greek market over in Brooklyn.”
Elf draws apart the curtains and slides open the balcony door. There’s nobody on the balcony. All is well on the street below.
“What did I tell ya?” asks Stanley. “He’s gone for a stroll, is all. It’s a beautiful morning in New York City. He’ll be back any minute.”
* * *
—
“ALL ABOARD, ALL aboard, Locomotive 97.8 FM,” says the DJ. “I am Bat Segundo bringing you all the best songs from Great to Late. It’s coming up to five after three and that was ‘Roll Away the Stone,’ the new single by my old friends from across the pond, Utopia Avenue. Three-quarters of the band are here aboard the Bat Train to discuss their way-out new album, Stuff of Life—but, first, introductions are in order.” Bat nods at Elf first.
“Hello, New York,” Elf says, into her mic. “I’m Elf Holloway, I play keyboards and sing with the band, and”—I’m so worried about our missing guitarist, I could puke—“we know Bat from his disc jockey days in England, where he was the first DJ on the planet to play us. Enough about me. Over to Dean.” Elf grimaces on the inside. I sounded like an idiot.
“Afternoon, all. I’m Dean Moss, I play bass, sing, and write. That last one was one o’ mine, so I hope yer dug it. We think the sun shines out of all the Bat-holes. Griff?”
“I’m Griff the ’umble drummer. For those of you trying to picture me, imagine Paul Newman and Rock Hudson’s love child.”
“Missing,” continues the Bat, “is the fourth Utopian, Jacob de—sorry, I mean, Jasper de Zoet—I just changed his name—Jasper, who plays guitar and will be back for tonight’s show at the Ghepardo on 53rd Street, starting nine P.M., a few tickets still available so get—on—down.”
I hope to hell he will be back, thinks Elf.
“So tell us, Elf, Dean, Griff,” says Bat. “As citizens of one great city, what are your first impressions of our great city? In one word.”
“ ‘Sandwiches,’ ” says Griff. “Back home, it’s ham, egg, or cheese. Here, there’s hundreds of breads, meats, cheeses, pickles, dressings. I didn’t know where to start at the deli. I had to order by pointing at a customer’s sandwich and saying, ‘One of them.’ ”
“My word for New York is ‘more,’ ” says Dean. “More buildings, more height, more noise, more beggars, more music, more neon, more races. More hustle, bustle, winners, losers. More more.”
“More shrinks,” offers Bat. “More rats. Elf?”
“I can’t sum up the city in a single word,” says Elf, “but if New York was a sentence, it would be ‘Stay out of my hair, and I’ll stay out of yours.’ London would be, ‘And who do you think you are?’ ”
“I could personify cities all day,” says the DJ. “But let’s talk music. Congratulations on busting the Top Thirty with ‘Roll Away the Stone’—a song you wrote, Dean, in testing circumstances?”
“I did, Bat, yeah. Basically, the Italian police planted drugs on me and slung me into prison for a week. ‘Roll Away the Stone’ came out o’ that. I was completely exonerated, I hasten to add.”
“Corrupt cops?” Bat acts astonished. “Thank God we have none of them in New York City. And thank God that justice prevailed because Stuff of Life, the album you recorded after your release, is a supernova. Now, I loved your debut—Paradise Is the Road to Paradise—but Stuff of Life is up a gear. The writing’s so assured. The sonic palette’s wider. You got a harpsichord on ‘Sound Mind.’ String section on ‘The Hook.’ Sitar on ‘Look Who It Isn’t.’ Lyrically, it’s more adventurous. So I gotta ask: What in God’s name have you been putting on your cornflakes?”
“Big Brother ’n’ the Holding Company,” says Griff.
“Odessey and Oracle by the Zombies,” says Elf.
“The Band’s Music from Big Pink,” says Dean. “Yer hear a record that good, yer think, Shi–damn, we’ve got to up our game.”
“Our friend Brian talks about ‘The Scenius,’ ” says Elf. “The genius of the scene. Art’s made by artists, but artists are enabled by a scene—non-artistic factors. Buyers, sellers, materials, patrons, technology, places to mingle and swap ideas. You see the fruits of scenius in Medici Florence. The Dutch Golden Age. New York in the twenties. Hollywood. Right now, the scenius of London, and Soho, is pretty perfect. We’ve the venues, studios with multitrack recorders, the radio stations, the music papers and magazines…even cafés where session players hang out. Even a few managers who won’t rip you off.” Through the studio glass, Levon blows Elf a kiss. “We made our album, sure. But it emerged from the scenius.”
“Possibly the most erudite answer ever heard on Locomotive 97.8 FM,” says Bat. “Yet Stuff of Life’s songs, you’ll agree, come not from �
�scenius’ but from experiences you’ve lived through. Some are so personal, it hurts. In a good way.”
Dean and Elf look at each other. Dean says, “True…it’s been a bit of a roller-coaster year. In our personal lives, like. We’ve lived through stuff that, like, can’t not get into the songs.”
“Exposing your heart and fears isn’t always pleasant or easy,” says Elf. “But if a song isn’t felt—if not even its writer ever believed it— it’s phony. It’s a steak sandwich made of paper and glue. It may look okay but it tastes wrong. I can’t write fake songs. I know Dean and Jasper are the same.”
“You’ve been quoted as saying ‘Even the Bluebells’ is an elegy for a young relative of yours who passed away, Elf?”
“My nephew died in May. The song’s for him. For Mark. I…don’t want to kill the vibes by sobbing on your live show, Bat, so…”
Utopia Avenue Page 52
