The Best Book in the World (17 page)

A
call from an ex-directory number. I hate people who don’t dare show where they are ringing from, Astra thinks irritably when she answers:

‘Yes, hello?’

‘Yes, hi. I wonder if you are the person responsible for your company’s security issues?’

‘No, I’m not.’

‘Well, my name is Fabian Nadersson and I’m phoning on behalf of Maximal Security. Can you spare a minute?’

‘But I said that I am
not
responsible for security issues. Are you deaf?’

‘No, not at all. On the contrary. The thing is that at the moment we have a good campaign for automatic back-up copying via the net. All of your company’s computers can upload a complete back-up file every day without the users having to do anything. You don’t need any extra bandwidth, and everything is stored on double servers in Maximal Security’s vaults.’

‘But I don’t care. I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR SECURITY ISSUES.’

‘I see. But you might be interested in signing up for a trial period? The first week is free…’

‘No! You must phone the person responsible for security issues!’

‘Okay, who is that?

‘I haven’t the faintest idea…’

‘But it is just a trial period. You don’t commit yourself to anything. The first week is completely free and after a week you can contact us if you don’t want to…’

‘Stop, stop, stop! I don’t want to talk to you anymore. Thank you and goodbye!’

‘Okay, we’re agreed then?’

‘Wait. WAIT. What do you mean “we’re agreed”?’

‘That you’re signing up for a trial period. Aren’t you?’

‘No! We are
not
signing up for any damned trial period! Is that understood?’

‘Absolutely. Thank you for your time. Goodbye.’

‘Goodbye.’

Astra throws the phone down onto her desk and leans backwards. She is angry. Just now, everyone is an idiot, especially people trying to sell you things over the phone. Only sadists become telemarketers. They sit there and delight in retaining their icy cold attitude while the person they are talking to gets all the more irritated. In eight out of ten cases it ends with the person who has answered shouting down the phone and cutting off the call. And the pleasure-loving telephone sellers, what do they do? They record the whole thing and listen to the worst conversations time and time again. They praise their own calmness and laugh scornfully at the victim on the other end.

Automatic back-ups. Yawn. Who gives a damn?

She continues the dreary task of answering the day’s emails and shakes her head at that telephone seller Fabian Nadersson and his hopeless attempt to get her to buy something. And anyway, Nadersson? What sort of name is that?

She thinks about Titus and his computer. There, the security is already tip-top. Her company already has an excellent security department and she hasn’t the slightest inclination to let any horrid telephone seller plague their lives. It was quite right to cut off that Nadersson fellow and his ex-directory number.

Then it struck her. The back-up copy…

Hadn’t Titus left a memory card at her flat when they had that working meeting with Evita? Where did that get to? Bloody hell, it’s time she gave Titus some feedback. She really ought to read the manuscript and phone him. It really isn’t his fault that Eddie is a blockhead. Did she take the card with her to work? No, she can’t remember that she ever picked it up. Yet she is absolutely certain that Titus put it on the coffee table. Is it still there?

When Astra gets home she can’t find the memory card anywhere. She looks behind all the cushions and under the rug. Nowhere.

She recapitulates the meeting she had with Titus and Evita. They talked about the book launch and that they would translate some chapters for the book fair so that they had
something
to show the international agents. And when they had almost finished, Eddie rang the doorbell. Did Titus put the card on the table before or after Eddie had come? He must have put it on the table long before Eddie turned up. And since she didn’t pick it up, that means the card lay there when Eddie came in…

Surely, it isn’t possible…

Could Eddie have…?

No, why should he…?

She dismisses the ridiculous idea. Now she is starting to become as paranoid as Titus. Let’s look at this sensibly. No, the card must have been mislaid when she cleaned, or something like that. She must have had her mind on other things. And by now the card has either ended up in the rubbish, or she has put it somewhere and forgotten where.

She must phone Titus and ask him for a new memory card. That’s probably just as well. Then she’ll have an opportunity to check progress and she’ll get a more up-to-date manuscript. But she can’t tell Titus that she has gone and lost the first one. Then he would just fall to bits.

She phones him, but he doesn’t answer. Where can he be? She looks at her watch to check the date. The sixth. Wasn’t it today that Titus was going to read at that Spoken Word Festival at Södra Teatern? Yes, of course it was.

She decides to grab a bite before she goes. She finds some Parma ham and marinated zucchini in the fridge and she grates a little pepper and parmesan over it. I’ll have to eat quickly, she thinks, I must get some make-up on too. And find something really attractive to wear.

Eddie X will be there of course, and she is not going to treat him to the sight of her looking tired or miserable. That idiot.

Really she doesn’t want to go to that spectacle at all. However,
she is Titus’ publisher. Her conscience gnaws and tells her she ought to give him all the support she can, despite his having behaved in such an annoying manner.

These readings are usually out-and-out freak shows. Clownery and sick humour of the worst type, albeit nicely hidden in a cultural cloak.

But now that Titus is sober, perhaps he at least can retain a fragment of his honour?

I
n Stockholm in the beginning of September you can’t be sure of anything. Is it summer or autumn? Are people happy after their holidays and life-sustaining activities? Or are they already beginning to become depressed, faced as they are with eight months of darkness? If they have let themselves go over the top with summer delights, they can lose their minds in the winter when the dreary contrast casts its shadow on their senses. And if they have completely shut out the summer, their bodies might have been exposed to too little sunlight and the consequent vitamin D shortage will knock them straight into an autumn and winter depression instead.

In Sweden it is a question of balancing your feelings and spreading them out over the year: not too much and not too little. The Swedes have a special word for this –
lagom.
They pride themselves on this word being totally Swedish, and claim that it doesn’t exist in any other language. In Sweden you need to be
lagom.
A Swede rations his or her experiences. Only somebody who is
lagom
can keep their cool.

But in recent years Sweden has started to lose its footing.
Lagom
is getting a bit wobbly.
Lagom
has sprung a leak. Swedes are beginning to lose their minds.

It began back in the 1950s and 1960s with American cultural hegemony: a magnificent flood of sitcoms with canned laughter. Historians will come to see that it was Lucille Ball and her
The Lucy Show
that disturbed the equilibrium for all time. A red-haired dame in black-and-white TV, with conical breasts and a crazy laugh – it was simply hilarious, yet still attractive and human in some way. In and out through doors, up and down stairs. What was this? And why was it funny? How could the meek Swedes ever be the same again after this experience?

Then came the immigrants with their weird spicy food and hot feelings, which they liked to serve with joyful voices and wild gestures. They started to call each other and the Swedes ‘pal’, ignoring the fact that it actually takes a lifetime to acquire a friend in Sweden. And as if to really bowl these
lagom
-Swedes over, they started to mix all cultures any old how, their own as well as that of the Swedes: kebab on pizza, cinnamon in coffee, sprinkles on strawberries!

Other cultural imports that have created sensory distortion are Poetry Slam and Spoken Word. They are stage actors, poets, authors and stand-up comedians who in various ways perform on stage so that their texts will reach the public. There are no rules. The one who reaches them best, wins the public’s hearts. You can be funny, sincere, political, ironic, in fact anything at all that arouses emotions and makes the public feel they are an important part of a large, loud and weird world.

Summer meets autumn. Euphoria meets depression. The calendar has reached 6 September. This evening is the Spoken Word Festival, a party evening for brilliant texts. Not quite so geared to hysterical laughter as stand-up comedy, but just as memorable and entertaining. The best talents in the country are gathered here, and even the odd legend from abroad has been invited to join them.

When Titus Jensen gets to Södra Teatern, Stockholm’s alternative crowd has already started to meet up in the square outside the theatre. They hug one another and laugh. Hair in all colours of the rainbow, tattoos and piercings, funny clothes, new clothes, ragged clothes. Emotions and life. Nothing
lagom
as far as the eye can see.

Titus, however, is not especially colourful when he stumbles on the steps to the entrance. The black-clad figure with his shaved head is obliged to make use of the railing to ascend, a sight that is all too familiar. The pathetic Author with a capital A has come to provide entertainment for the people. And he looks just as sloshed as usual.

Not everybody thinks Titus Jensen is pathetic. Halfway up the steps he is stopped by an enthusiastic young couple. Both of them just as black-clad as Titus. They are bobbing up and down as they stand and both talking at the same time.

‘Oh, Titus, can we have your autograph? We love you. We got together when you read
Manual for Housewives
at the Peace & Love Festival last year. Like, without you we’d never have become a couple. You gave us love. Do you get it? You are the greatest!’

Titus stares at them. This has never happened before. Nobody has ever, in all of his career, expressed their love or admiration in such an unrestrained and direct manner. He takes the felt-tip pen and writes his name on their arms. The blood rushes to his cheeks and he feels the blush spread. A weird sensation. Somebody likes him. Indeed, two people like him. The couple bounce along further up the steps and Titus follows them with his gaze for a moment before moving on.

Inside the foyer, the marble floor makes the background buzz especially loudly. The intense theatre atmosphere is so strong you almost think you can hear a chamber orchestra tuning its instruments despite the fact that many a year has passed since there was an orchestra pit at Södra Teatern.

On the left, some young wardrobe attendants are leaning over the counter with nothing to do. It is still too warm for overcoats. Besides, wardrobe fees are not included in the budget for today’s young public. Instead, they slowly pour in through the doors to the right, up the staircase and towards the bar. No active cultural experience without stimulants. Titus follows along with the flow and wonders if he too will have time for something before his entrance. For the last few days, the very thought of performing has made him feel uncomfortable, even though his performance doesn’t necessitate a single minute’s preparation. He only has to be himself, to treat them to himself, he has tried to convince himself. As Eddie X sometimes shouts out when he introduces him on the stage: ‘Everybody has a bit of him in themselves. Yet there is only one Titus Jensen – and that is TITUS JENSEN!’

But nevertheless, today it doesn’t feel as simple as it usually does. Something important is absent.

When Titus gets to the top of the stairs and is about to enter the bar, somebody puts a hand on his shoulder. A strict voice:

‘Ticket please!’

Titus whirls round.

A big smile. Brilliant white teeth, velvet-brown eyes that can melt glaciers.

‘Nice to see you, Eddie,’ says Titus with a slight nod of his head.

‘You are late,’ says Eddie and puts his whole arm round Titus’ shoulders, giving him a half-hug. ‘It doesn’t matter. Come on in, we’ve time for a beer in the green room before we get started. Great to see you!’

Today Eddie X is wearing a knee-long batik tunic in various shades of purple. Down below, a pair of creased grey-black and rolled-up linen trousers stick out. On his feet, some shabby ox-blood coloured Dr Marten boots without laces. His dead straight Indian hair with orange and blue streaks is twisted into an erect ponytail. At the very top, his hair bushes out like a fountain above his head. There is something elevated about Eddie when he glides through the premises. He greets the public and shakes hands with a lot of them. Now and then he puts his left hand over the handshake as if to seal a lifelong contract of mutual love and fidelity.

It could be a magical evening.

Being drunk can be exhausting. But
pretending
to be drunk is even more of a drain on one’s resources.

Nervousness, abstinence and anxiety are riding Titus Jensen. At the moment he has the main role in the stage play of his life. Every single nerve is at maximum tension and at the same time that he is sweating profusely he must smother yawn after yawn. It is as if his body is screaming at him to fill up with oxygen. Everything to retain control of the situation.

He hasn’t got much more work left on his masterpiece and no way is he going to allow Eddie X to destroy anything. Eddie can go on thinking that Titus is a boozy has-been, but when the book
is published, that love evangelist will be crushed once and for all. He will be crumbled into bits. The future belongs to Titus Jensen and
The Best Book in the World.

In the green room Lenny is sitting and swigging a beer. He has thrown up one leg over the arm of his armchair and his foot bobs up and down in time with his shoulders which twitch now and then. He is all charged today; he is going to accompany Eddie’s text-reading with an amplified contrabass. Just him, Eddie X and a large stage. Today there won’t be any of the big band twitches from The Tourettes.

When Titus comes into the room he immediately falls onto the sofa inside the door. His panic increases. Now there are two people to act drunk in front of.

‘C-c-cock in your ear!’ Eddie yells when he catches sight of Titus.

‘Hi Lenny. Hell, great to see you,’ says Titus, slurring his words in an attempt to sound like his usual half-sloshed worse self.

Lenny gets a bottle out a little fridge and stretches across to Titus.

‘You seem to be fairly sozzled already. H-h-here. Drink this fucker too. Amaze the world!’

Titus takes the little bottle and holds it to his nose. Vodka. Of all the spirits in the world, vodka is the easiest to drink. He feels the craving grow inside him, and he knows that he could drink the whole bottle in less than thirty seconds. He knows exactly what it feels like when the first calm spreads through his body purely from the knowledge of having access to alcohol, long before it reaches his bloodstream.

But it is better to be obsessed than dependent. When the human driving forces do battle, it is not always the strongest one that wins. You can use your brain too, and let cleverness win on points. Despite the proximity of the vodka, Titus feels totally relaxed when he conjures forth his reward image. The young boy with his life before him, lying on a woman’s bosom, breathing in time with her. Out and in. Out and in. Moustache wet with fat milk. Lick it off. Become calm. Cognitive self-help. Vodka came, vodka went away. Hello and goodbye. He is going to get through this. Again.
He can do it. He is good.

‘Are you all geared up, Titus?’ Lenny wonders. ‘Has Eddie told you what you’re going to read?’

‘No, I never do that in advance,’ says Eddie, and flashes a smile via the mirror at Lenny and Titus. ‘It would spoil the magic. Wouldn’t it, Titus?’

‘Mmmm,’ mumbles Titus, who realises that he must lie low with the talk so as not to out himself as a newly fledged teetotaller.

He presses his thumb hard against the mouth of the bottle, leans back on the sofa into a recumbent position and puts the bottle to his lips. Then he turns his head in towards the sofa, holding the bottle between the cushion and the back of the sofa. He releases his thumb. The vodka runs out, gurgling, down into the innards of the sofa.

Then he adopts a half-sitting position with a ‘pah!’ and wipes his mouth on the arm of his jacket and puts the empty bottle down with a bang on the coffee table. He pushes a sofa cushion over the damp patch and says:

‘F-fanks, Renny… can I have a little snooze before it’s time?’

Titus doesn’t wait for an answer, but leans back with his eyes shut. He isn’t following any special plan, just acting on the spur of the moment. Parry. Act. Live life like it’s a pinball machine. He emits a short snore.

‘Hey, Titus! Have you fallen asleep? You can’t sleep now. Hey!’ says Lenny.

Titus doesn’t respond. Must play for time, reload. Soon they will expose him.

‘Titus? Are you there?’ Now it is Eddie who wants to know.

No answer. Heavy breathing.

‘He is beyond salvation,’ Eddie sighs. ‘It’s rather sad, isn’t it?’

‘It is fucking crazy. He just zonked out. Must be totally sloshed.’

Eddis tears himself away from his mirror image and goes up to Titus. He gives him a gentle shake.

‘Titus…?’

No response.

‘TITUS!’

Eddie gets hold of Titus’ jacket lapel and pulls him up. Titus’ head hangs backwards. A little string of saliva runs out of his open mouth. His body is totally limp. All his strength goes into being out of reach.

The stakes are high, Titus knows that. But it is a case of make or break. Snore.

Eddie lets go of him. Leans over Titus’ ear and says in a calm and friendly tone:

‘Titus, I’ll come and wake you five minutes before it’s time for your entrance. In about half an hour. It’s going to be fine. You’ll manage it.’

‘What the fuck! Are we just going to let him lie here?’ is Lenny’s loud contribution as he pokes Titus in his side.

‘What choice do we have?’

‘Yeah, well we can phone a hospital and ask them to send an ambulance. The guy is unconscious, you can see that!’

‘Get a hold of yourself, damn you! So that they would send him to some fucking rehab clinic, or what?’

What was that? Titus reacts in his pretend torpor. A new tone. Titus has never before heard Eddie raise his voice against anybody. What’s going on?

Titus hears that they leave him and move towards the door. It sounds as if they are pushing and shoving each other.

Titus decides to sneak a look and opens a minimal slit between his eyelids. He peeps out. What is happening?

Lenny stands by the door with his hand on the door knob. He is on his way out. Eddie is standing next to him. Legs apart, his arms crossed. Keeping the door closed with his foot. A tense situation.

‘I just thought…’ Lenny attempts.

‘Don’t fucking think anything,’ Eddie hisses and pushes Lenny up against the door. ‘If you let me down then I’ll reveal the whole bloody mess. Then you are –
in deep shit
.’

‘Yeees… or no. I mean, of course I’ll do it for you. I’ll pump him. I promised I would.’

Eddie X has the underside of the lower part of his arm up against
Lenny’s throat. He applies some pressure, hard and for a long time. His arm is trembling with rage. The knuckles on his clenched fist have gone all white. His jaw is tense. His upper lip twitches. A vein throbs on his forehead. Eddie is no longer handsome, just angry, extremely angry. With his teeth together, he hisses:

‘You’re going to help me see this project through. I have read more than half and it could just as well be my own words. It was fucking well my idea from the very first. That bastard has nicked it all. We must do whatever is necessary, do you get that? Whatever the cost.’