THE OPENING CHAPTER

October 2, 1994

The last time Ali would ever touch down in England it was implausibly sunny and Kurt Cobain had been dead for six months. Sliding ever closer to London on a Delta jet airliner, the world never more beautiful than when admired from a fatal height, it felt perfectly natural for Alistair McCain to be thinking about Nirvana’s suicidal front man. The reason for this was straightforward enough. It had everything to do with Ali’s final destination, the Oxford college that had thrown open its doors to the young Californian, where he was about to begin studying English literature. The college was named Cockbayne, although its pronunciation had nothing to do with the bane of a cock, whatever that might be. Cockbayne possessed one of those sly names, the correct pronunciation of which bestowed upon you the status of insider. Anyone foolish enough to speak the word phonetically was clearly deserving of ridicule.

Just in case, Ali had devised a mnemonic to groom his tongue. Cockbayne, rhymes with cocaine, pronounced Cobain.

Cobain like Kurt, one of those rare Americans the English had taken wholly to their cautious hearts.

As his flight from LAX landed at Heathrow, Ali felt the thrill rising up in his chest, the promise of daylight a light apricot band clawing its way above the horizon. Yes, it was in Kurt’s footsteps that he hoped to follow. That is, to be loved by the people living here, in his new home across the ocean blue. England was a kind of holy land, the country in which Ali had been born but could not recall, a nation whose DNA lurked in his blood.

By the time he stepped onto the train platform at Oxford, the sun was concealed behind a battalion of gray-coated rain clouds. Having dressed optimistically in a cotton blazer, its shade as close to Oxford blue as he could find, Ali felt a damp sense of chill in the air. A fat raindrop slapped the crown of his head as he signaled to a taxi, crouched in the parking lot like a lion contemplating its lunch.

He hoped the ride wasn’t a lengthy one. Ali’s brand-new money was something scarce and precious, his stepdad having been less than generous with his allowance. Apparently, Marty Van Wagner was teaching his stepson something called fiscal responsibility, a life lesson unlikely to be applied to his adored biological offspring, Georgia and Carolina, seven years younger than Ali. His identical twin stepsisters were both of one mind when it came to opinions concerning their new brother. They agreed that Ali was weird, a quality no doubt accounted for by his biological father, a pyrotechnically odd Englishman.

Maybe his stepsisters were right. It was undoubtedly a strange situation because, after the age of eighteen months, Ali McCain had never been in the same room as his father. And yet, Gerry McCain was world famous, the sort of man who attracted superfans, people who’d read every book about rock and roll star Gel McCain and listened to every recording and bootleg. Ali himself had digested only half the available material. Certain unauthorized biographies made for difficult reading, courtesy of their lurid writing style and questionable tabloid allegations. Consequently, there existed thousands of people in the world who knew more about Ali’s father than Ali did himself, even if half of that knowledge was manifestly false.

But all those books were right about the fact that Ali’s existence was the main reason behind Gel McCain’s second marriage—to Ali’s mother. Most of them told the tale of the now-legendary lead singer on his band’s first American tour, the bucketful of LSD shared backstage and a petite Texan beauty queen smuggled into Gerry’s dressing room in the Hollywood Bowl. There followed an after-show party à deux, sex and drugs and rock and roll. And fireworks! Literal fireworks. Gel McCain was notorious for setting off bottle rockets, Roman candles and pinwheels indoors while tripping on acid.

Ali was born nine months later, three weeks before Gel would secretly wed his backstage beauty queen, which meant technically he was a bastard son. Ali read this fact, mentioned as a casual aside, in one of the less controversial Gel McCain exposés. Ali had never thought to do the math.

“Reading was his favorite pastime but the short paragraph on his illegitimacy wasn’t one Ali would ever recall with great fondness. The revelation would, however, lend him an interesting perspective while studying Shakespeare, whose works were brimful of villains born out of wedlock. I grow, I prosper. Now, gods, stand up for bastards!

Gel McCain and his tiny Texan bride were married only eighteen months, their relationship the embodiment of the difficult second album, Ali almost certainly its only fan. He’d been born in Charing Cross Hospital in the London borough of Hammersmith and Fulham, the birthing room boasting a view of the River Thames. At the moment of Ali’s delivery, five hundred miles away in West Berlin, ten thousand fans were chanting his father’s name. Gel, Gel, Gel . . . It was another occasion accompanied by fireworks, the closing date of a two-month European tour.

Ali had watched the video footage. You could see the band’s manager slipping onstage between tracks to tell Gel McCain that his third—acknowledged—son had been safely delivered in London. Gel turned to the band, suggesting a change to the set list. The Pale Fires then launched into one of their less famous B-sides, No Complications. Based on its title, the choice of song seemed like a good idea. But the track had nothing to do with straightforward births and, in fact, concerned casual sexual relations with numerous women—sometimes numerously.

She’ll tie ya down, but only with rope / See her later, not a hope / No complications, no complications, no complications . . .

Stay classy, Dad.

Ah, the D-word, a single syllable that had passed Ali’s lips barely once during the first eighteen years of his life. He was fifteen years old by the time his mother married a second time, Ali too old to be calling Marty the D-word. Other than dentist, not just a profession—a calling. But whatever Ali thought of his stepdad, in the menagerie of their marriage, Marty Van Wagner and Dolly Winters were a perfect match. Ali’s mother ate like a bird and Marty drank like a fish.

The taxi driver turned on the meter.

“Where to, young man?” he asked over his shoulder.

“Cockbayne,” said Ali, perfectly rhyming its syllables with cocaine.

And yet, only one word from his mouth and the driver replied, “You’re American, right?”

“Well, now, it’s funny you should say that . . .”

“Welcome to this sceptered isle,” the driver cut in.

This sceptered isle. Ali sat up taller, the words ringing a deafening bell. “Richard the Second,” he announced.

“What’s that, mate?”

“This sceptered isle,” Ali enthused. “It’s from Shakespeare.”

The driver appeared barely impressed.

“This royal throne of kings,” Ali croaked. “This sceptered isle, this earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, this other Eden . . .”

Ali had noticed the driver’s eyes moving in the rearview mirror as he spoke, left-right left-right, in concert with the vehicle’s windshield wipers. But now the driver’s look had trailed off to one side. “I’m guessing you’re one of our student population, then,” he said.

“Right, English literature,” said Ali. “How could you tell?” he added, in a self-mocking way.

“Sixth bloody sense, mate.”

Ali stared out the taxicab window, the local populace hidden behind dark umbrellas and further concealed by the raindrop-mottled glass. This happy breed of men, this little world. This precious stone set in the silver sea.

“This might interest you,” said Ali. “You identified me as American, okay? But look, I have a British passport.” Ali pulled it from his blazer’s inside pocket and waved it at the mirror. “I was actually born in London,” he continued eagerly. “I lived in Chelsea—for a short time anyway. Not that I can remember. My mother and I moved to the States before I was two.”

“Whereabouts in America?”

“LA.”

“Los Angeles?” The driver perked up. “You’ve come a long way from Tinseltown, young man. I’ve heard good things about the weather.”

“Have you heard about the traffic?”

“Traffic doesn’t bother me, mate. I just turn on the radio. Got it tuned to this rock station, plays all the classics.”

“Really?” said Ali. “Who do you like?”

“The Who . . .”

“Who’s on first?” said Ali, laughing.

“No, mate.” The driver frowned. “They’re just called—The Who.”

“I was . . . It’s a famous joke, no? Abbott and Costello. Who’s on first, What’s on second, I Don’t Know is on third.”

The taxi driver scowled and returned to his list. “Then you’ve got The Kinks, Hollies, Small Faces, Troggs, Yardbirds. But my all-time favorite, obviously, is The Pale Fires.”

“Oh, really?” Ali leaned forward.

“Yeah, Gel McCain’s a personal hero of mine,” said the driver. “The geezer turns fifty in a couple of years and he can still out-strut, out-sing and out-party anyone half his age. Total legend. I’ve seen Gel sixteen . . . no, tell a lie, seventeen times.”

“Might be more than I have,” Ali murmured.

“You ask me,” said the driver, apparently not listening, “the only time The Pale Fires went off the boil was when Gerry shacked up with that Yank. No offense.”

Ah, and so it begins. There was a significant percentage of male Pale Fires fans who blamed Ali’s mother for various things that had nothing to do with her—the band’s original drummer leaving the group in 1976, for example, or Gerry’s arrest for drug possession the following year. And Ali absolutely was offended—not for himself but on behalf of his mother. However, he was genial by nature and had learned to harness geniality. It was something to be deployed like a weapon, turning up the dial when its application might be advantageous. This was a skill Ali had acquired around the age of fifteen, after his transfer to private school, home to the progeny of LA’s richest and most elite. Applewood was an establishment where social weapons were necessary for survival, its corridors full of biting and stinging creatures, the air saturated with an all-knowing derision.

He decided to let the taxi driver’s slur go unchallenged.

“But I’m half British, remember,” said Ali.

The driver looked unconvinced. “I reckon that was Gel’s Yoko Ono moment, marrying Dolly.”

“People sometimes forget,” said Ali, trying not to sound irritated, “John Lennon stayed happily married to Yoko until the day he died.”

“Tragedy, that was,” said the driver. “Lennon being shot. By a lunatic Yank, of course. All goes back to the Boston Tea Party if you ask me.” The driver sucked his teeth. “Anyway, back to Gel. He saw the light, obviously, and ditched little Dolly. Triumphant return to the homeland. Wife number three, Jill Stone, best of British.”

“How long did his marriage to Jill last?” Ali asked, knowing the answer and trying not to sound overtly sarcastic.

“Seven months,” said the driver.

Ali paused meaningfully. “Right, best of British,” he sighed.

“Funny enough,” said the driver, “seven’s what you might call a theme. Gel’s now on to wife number seven. Latest one’s a Brazilian, Arantxa, drop-dead gorgeous.”

The driver made a right turn, the juddering taxi swinging onto a street lined with stores that eventually gave way to a centuries-old church standing across from a college. Soon there were more colleges, on both sides of the street, every building seemingly constructed from the same pale yellow stone, the shade of raw cookie dough.

Ali had spent hundreds of hours reading everything he could about his new home, as well as chatting with his Applewood drama teacher, Lucy Rochester, who was English and an Oxford graduate. The university’s setup sounded screwy, although in a charming way. There were thirty-six different colleges, of which fifteenth-century Cockbayne was only the twelfth oldest, each of them independent and self-governing. And yet, all thirty-six of them were constituent parts of the university as a whole. Ms. Rochester had explained that while some students interacted with each other on a university level, most preferred to spend the bulk of their time with people from their own college. At Cockbayne there were fewer than four hundred undergrads, so maybe around a hundred and thirty freshmen. This sense of intimacy was just one of the many charms that appealed . . .

No, a hundred and thirty freshers, Ali corrected himself—that was what they called them here. The language of Oxford University was going to be a whole other challenge to master. But as with the correct pronunciation of Cockbayne, he had trained hard in preparation for life in this brave new world.

Thinking of Lucy—and her disappointingly pleasant and well-spoken husband—a question occurred to Ali. “Hey, you’re a professional driver,” he said, “so you must know where the headquarters of the Saracens is located, right?”

The Rochesters had invited Ali to dinner to advise him on the intricacies of applying to Oxford. Lucy’s husband, Charlie, was also English and an Oxford graduate. In fact, while Lucy was in the kitchen, it was Charlie who had planted the seed of applying specifically to Cockbayne in Ali’s mind.

I promise you, Ali, there’s no finer college in the world. I still pine for the heavenly scent of the wisteria drifting around the Cloister every spring.

On a dining room bookshelf, Ali had noticed a framed photo of the now husband and wife, a youthful-looking Lucy in a sleek green ball gown, Charlie towering above her, wearing a top hat, bow tie and tailcoat, the hat causing him to appear seven feet tall. Apparently, the photo had been taken not long after they first met, at a party thrown by Charlie’s dining club, which was called the Saracens. Ali had tucked the detail away. If the Saracens was the kind of club where you met people like Lucy Rochester, he would make filling in the application to study at Cockbayne his number one priority.

The taxi driver was frowning uncertainly. “Oh, wait,” he said, “posh boys club, right? Dicky bows and fancy hats!”

“Top hats, that’s right,” said Ali.

“Don’t think they have an HQ,” said the driver. “If they do, they keep it hush-hush. I had a couple of Saracen lads in the back there this summer, all togged up in their expensive clobber. Bit obnoxious, if you ask me. Both steaming drunk. I hear one of them retch, then I smell it, so I pull over and yell at them, how much money it’s gonna cost me to clean, let alone all the lost fares . . . One of them pulls five hundred quid from his pocket. Terribly sorry, sir, but hopefully this should cover any inconvenience! I pocket the cash, still fuming, drop them off at their fancy restaurant and go to inspect the damage . . . Nothing. Not a chunk. I reckon the one who threw up must’ve caught the whole mess in his top hat.”

“So that’s why they wear those things,” Ali chuckled.

“Yeah, aristocrat’s version of a bucket hat.” The driver winked in the mirror. “Anyway,” he went on, “I’m guessing you’re about to begin your first year, young man.”

“Correct,” said Ali. “But what makes you say that?”

“All these questions. You sound a bit fresh off the boat. Know what I mean?”

“I thought I was just being—enthusiastic,” said Ali.”

“Ha!” the driver snorted. “Well, once you’ve been here a few weeks, we’ll knock that right out of you.”

“Great,” said Ali. “Now I really can’t wait to begin my new life.”

“Just pulling your plonker, mate,” the driver laughed. “Better get used to that. We Brits don’t like anyone who can’t laugh at himself.”

“Pulling my—plonker?” said Ali. “What does that even mean?” This word had appeared nowhere in the extensive glossary of Oxford lingo.

“Pulling your leg,” said the driver. “Plonker’s a slang word. For another kind of leg, as it happens. Your third leg, if you catch my drift.”

“Wait,” said Ali. “You mean my dick? You’re telling me you were pulling my dick all the way from the front seat? Man, either you have freakishly long arms or I must be a popular guy.”

The driver smiled. “Fair play, mate. That’s actually halfway funny.” His amusement quickly waned as the taxi joined a line of traffic waiting at a red light. Again, the driver glanced back at Ali in his mirror. “So if you were born in London, what on earth took you Stateside?”

“My dad had an affair,” said Ali. “And my mom’s American, from Texas. But we moved to LA because she’d always wanted to become an actress.”

With a soft stabbing pain, Ali recalled the scene that had played on repeat throughout his young life—the prolonged periods of no callbacks, balled-up tissues and cigarette stubs littering their apartment’s tiny balcony, Ali’s job to play World’s Biggest Fan of his mom’s forever untapped talent.

“Sorry to hear that, young man,” said the driver.

“Thanks,” said Ali, hoping the driver was referring to his dad’s behavior. “Although, actually,” he continued, “calling what my father did an affair is a world-class understatement. He slept with dozens of women in the short time my parents were together.”

“Bloody disgusting, that sort of muck,” said the driver.

“But what about Gel McCain?” said Ali, impulsively sticking up for his mom this time. “You told me he’s a hero of yours, no? Isn’t that exactly how Gerry behaves?”

“Yeah, only that’s different gravy.” The driver shrugged. “The gods of rock are playing a whole other ball game to us mere mortals. Gel’s got a certain image to maintain. Hell-raiser, womanizer. It’s basically the bloke’s job.”

“Sure,” said Ali, “breaking hearts, tearing families apart, sowing his seed and never seeing what comes of it. Solid profession, right?”

“I’m guessing you’re not a fan, then,” said the driver.

Ali fell back, letting the taxi’s upholstery take his weight. “Actually, I could quote you every line, every single song, Gerry McCain has ever written.”

The traffic was flowing smoothly again. Beyond the windshield wipers, Ali could see a large tower. He recognized it from the front cover of his Welcome to Cockbayne booklet, the famous Cockbayne Bell Tower built more than fifty years before Shakespeare was born. Every May Day the city celebrated the arrival of spring, thousands of people gathering below the tower, a choir singing hymns from its rooftop. Ali had seen a show on PBS, footage of Oxford’s May Morning tradition, women with flowers in their hair, men wearing bells wrapped around their shins, dancing around, waving sticks and handkerchiefs. Ali’s booklet had a section devoted to the event and, discovering it all over again, he’d remembered his reaction to those television pictures. May Morning was something ancient and alien, a connection to the distant past. And yet, it also felt like something inside Ali, a seed buried deep within his flesh. It was still seven months away but Ali couldn’t wait to witness May Day for himself.

The taxi slowed and then stopped. Already the rain had vanished and Ali handed over a greater proportion of his new money than he’d hoped to spend on the ride.

“Before I go,” he said, “what if I told you I’m Gel McCain’s third son?”

“I’d say leave it out, young man.”

“Leave what out?”

“Blimey,” said the driver, “you keep telling me how British you are but we don’t seem to be speaking the same language. Leave it out—it means stop, don’t be bloody daft.” He was looking over his shoulder at Ali, still in the backseat. And then something caused the driver to turn his head several more degrees. “Mind you, I suppose you do look a bit like him.”

“So people tell me,” said Ali.

“Except you’re blond.”

“Like a certain little Dolly?”

The driver turned even farther, his eyes locking hard on Ali. “Hang on, you’re a first year. Which makes you, what, eighteen years old?”

“Correct,” said Ali.”

“Born in seventy-six . . . No, no, no, you can’t be.”

“Can’t be what?”

“Fuck me sideways!” said the driver. “Wait, that would make you—the bloody Fat-Bottomed Baby!”

“The bloody Fat-Bottomed Baby,” Ali nodded.

“Wait, you’re telling me I have the genuine backside of the actual Fat-Bottomed Baby from the Fat-Bottomed Baby Album, 1976, planted on the backseat of my cab?”

Ali peered at his backside. “I think it’s actually gotten smaller since ’76.” He grinned.

“Sorry, mate, but that was one gigantic arse. Maybe it was a funny angle but I swear your arse was bigger than Gel’s head.”

“It appeared so, right?” Ali replied. “Even with all the rock-star hair.”

“Yeah, even with the hair,” said the driver, his tone softening as he reached into his pocket. “Look, mate, there’s no way I’m taking your money. The genuine Fat-Bottomed Baby, his actual arse sat in my cab. I’ll be dining out on this for years,” he said, offering the cash back to Ali.

“No, keep it. We sons of rock stars insist upon paying our way.”

“You, sir, are a gentleman and a scholar,” said the driver. “Now, listen,” he leaned in closer, “I ever see you trudging the streets of Oxford, next ride’s on me.”

“Friend, you’ve got yourself a deal,” said Ali, climbing out onto the sidewalk, already regretting his financial largesse.

As the vehicle pulled away, heading over an ancient bridge, Ali finally allowed himself a small wince. Fat-Bottomed Baby was a name that had hounded him throughout high school, before his move to Applewood. Ali had mistakenly mentioned the album cover story to a classmate he thought he could trust. By the next day, half the school was yelling at him, let’s see your fat ass, Fat-Bottomed Baby, boys The official title of the 1976 album by The Pale Fires, their second LP, was Poor Naked Wretches Whereso’er You Are That Bide The Pelting Of This Pitiless Storm. These might have been fine words from the quill of Shakespeare—King Lear, Act Three, Scene Four—but they were something of a mouthful when applied to a ten-track rock and roll blues album. Therefore, the record quickly became known as the Fat-Bottomed Baby Album, its cover boasting a wild-haired Gel McCain holding a naked baby boy, his bandmates standing behind him, dressed as Knights Templar, a ruined castle forming the backdrop.

Gel was holding the naked boy facing away from the camera, his forearm supporting Ali’s rear and having a kind of push-up bra effect on both buttocks. Also, for some dubious artistic reason, the photographer had snapped the shot while lying on the ground, the unflattering angle causing Ali’s buttocks to appear larger than his father’s head.

The Pale Fires had released twenty-one albums to date and the Fat-Bottomed Baby Album was generally considered their weakest effort, with Ali’s mother frequently cited as the reason why. The blonde Texan baby mama had clearly messed with Gel’s head.

Bullshit.

Ali took a deep breath and looked up at Cockbayne Bell Tower. The entrance to college was through an archway at its base. He stepped into the dim passageway and spied a green lawn framed by another stone arch. It was hard to believe he was truly here. Finally, Ali’s plan to birth a whole new Alistair McCain was underway.