The Best Book in the World (12 page)

Before Titus faints, he sees it all clearly: Eddie X, the new national hero, is also busy writing
The Best Book in the World.

Meltdown.

T
he doorbell rings.

Titus doesn’t know how long he has been lying there out cold. Could have been minutes, could have been twenty-four hours – it feels like an eternity. He gets up cautiously and staggers out into the hall, a bit dizzy but able to stand. His mouth feels dry and dusty. He must have been lying there in the kitchen quite a while. He looks at himself in the hall mirror, and sees he is as pale as a corpse despite the sunbed short-cut at the gym.

The doorbell rings again.

Who can it be? Is it Lenny coming back to steal the whole computer this time? Titus looks through the spy-hole. He sees a muscular guy in blue dungarees holding a gigantic toolbox, his mobile phone in a holster and blond streaks in his hair.

Then he remembers the conversation with Astra. It’s the locksmith of course. He got here so quickly. Then again, how does Titus know that? He could have been unconscious for ages. He opens the door.

‘Hello, are you the locksmith?’

‘That’s me. I came as quickly as I could, mate. There seemed to be a bit of a panic here they said.’

A local guy. You could tell from his accent. Good, somebody he could rely on, Titus persuades himself.

‘Come in.’

‘Yeah, right you are. It was this door, I gather.’

‘Yes, that’s the only door to the flat. Was it Astra Larsson who phoned you?’

‘Yeah, that’s the one. Nice lady. Phoned from Greece. Said it was urgent. So I came at once.’

‘The same day? Did she phone today, I mean?’

‘Yeah, right. I was busy with something on Hornsgatan before this. Took a bit of time. But got it done quickly anyway.’

Titus breathes out. In that case he hasn’t been unconscious for long.

‘I’m glad you’re here. Do what you have to do. Just go ahead with it.’

‘Yeah, you know, you can’t have this sort of door nowadays.’

‘No, I’ve noticed.’

‘I mean, just look at this. Come out here.’

The locksmith takes Titus out into the stairwell outside the flat and closes the door from outside. Then he pulls out a credit card from his wallet and slides it into the chink between the door and the doorpost just above the bolt. He pulls it downwards in the chink more or less like on an ordinary card reader in a shop. The card catches the bevelled bolt and pushes it easy as pie into its hole in the door, which opens without resistance.

‘Get it? You can’t have it like this, you realise that don’t you? Even a kid could get in through this door.’

‘Oh dear. Can you fix that?’

‘Sure. That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? She, the Greek lady, said that I should do a real state-of-the-art solution. I’ll make it like a bank vault, you know.’

‘That’s great. Thanks.’

‘Yeah, you know, first there’ll be an eight-millimetre titanium plate along the whole edge. Then there’ll be triple locks: an ordinary lock, a seven-lever and a nine-lever. Or do you want a code lock too? You can get them with combinations of up to ten digits.’

‘No, I think it’s enough having to keep track of three keys.’

‘Okay, that’s settled then. It’s your door, you know? I’ll have to re-bevel the hinges too. Fix a plate all the way down. Then nobody can get at it, you know. Idiot-proof. The lady is forking out for this, don’t worry.’

‘Okay. Can you manage on your own now for a while?’

Now that Titus is awake, he wants to get into the computer as soon as possible to check that everything is still there. He leaves
the locksmith, who immediately starts measuring up and pulling things out of his toolbox.

Titus blow-starts the computer.

Titus is amazed at how the message varies every time he turns on the computer. It must be a very complicated program that Astra has installed. No wonder the poor authors only get a quarter of the sales proceeds from their books, the software developers in Silicon Valley have to have their share, he thinks. It must cost a fortune to construct breathalyser locks that check enzymes.

Click, click, click. At last he gets to the folders on the hard disk. Everything is still there! The manuscript is where it should be. He opens the file and breathes out. All the characters are still there, every single one.

Now he must think. His worst fears have proved right. Eddie has conned him. It is extremely likely that he is fully occupied with writing
The Best Book in the World.
The
Summer
programme was just standard Eddie stuff, he had probably used most of the material earlier in his shows. He only had to gather it together, go into the studio and dazzle the public. Eddie X can do that – arousing emotions is his speciality. And perhaps Eddie is sitting somewhere working on a matchless book manuscript this very second! He is going to entrance people with that too.

Titus has got big problems. Eddie is the worst competitor imaginable.

And on top of it all, Lenny is trying to break into the flat. It must be Lenny, after all. Who else could it be? But what is he after? What could it benefit him to steal a manuscript? He could never publish Titus’ book under his own name, there would be an outcry on the arts pages and a much publicised
trial about copyright infringement. No, this is more a question of intellectual espionage: Lenny is trying to steal his ideas. There is no copyright protection for ideas. Anybody can steal an idea, at any time, even Lenny. That means there are two possibilities. It’s possible that somebody is trying to pinch ideas for their own use, but how likely is that? Lenny doesn’t feel like an entrepreneur who develops ideas. Lenny is a rocker. If it was about pinching a sketch for a tattoo, well perhaps. But ideas for
The Best Book in the World?
Hardly. Which leaves us with the other possibility: Lenny is stealing on somebody else’s behalf.

Eddie.

It is Eddie X who lies behind this. That’s how it is. It can’t be anything else. The sweet poetry evidently has other sides. Hidden, dark, dangerous sides. Titus can hardly believe his own thoughts – is it possible? Who would have thought that Sweden’s new darling is a liar and a burglar?

Titus looks at his watch. Half-past four. He decides to try to phone Christer Hermansson at the City Library and ask if Eddie has perhaps come back to his reading room after the radio programme. On the other hand, Eddie would never miss an
opportunity
to receive the adoration of the public. Titus knows that. He is probably sitting at the Association Bar and drinking wine, mingling with beautiful and happy people. Laughing and smiling, making hormones race. The personification of friendliness.

But it’s worth a try. In any case, he has no better strategy. He feels empty. He must find out what Eddie is doing. Titus hopes that Christer Hermansson isn’t on holiday, but he doesn’t seem to be the type who likes summer holidays.

‘Welcome to the Stockholm City Library. You are speaking to Christer Hermansson, acting Library Director.’

‘Hi Christer, Titus here.’

‘Well, well, Titus Jensen,’ Christer Hermansson answers with his most reserved voice. ‘Nice of you to call. May I recommend an excellent book:
Emperors and Generals: The Men behind Rome’s Successes?’

‘Always amusing. No, Christer, I want to ask you a favour.’

‘Of course.
Ich bin ein bibliothekar.
Your book request is my command.’

‘I don’t want to borrow anything. I wonder if you would be really kind and go down to Eddie’s reading room and see if he is in it, or if somebody else is there. Please, Christer, can you do that?’

Christer doesn’t answer immediately. He must delve into his conscience and see whether Titus’ request conflicts with some library regulation. No, it doesn’t: a librarian evidently has every right to supply the names of people who have visited the library. Christer Hermansson has never been asked before, but is sure that he is right. He always is.

‘Yes, that’s okay. I can arrange that.’

‘That’s nice of you. Super.’

‘Hold on. I’ll switch this call to the portable phone.’

Some clicking sounds follow. There is silence for a moment, then the buzzing returns. Titus hears Christer’s footsteps in the library. Half a minute passes. The footsteps fade. Christer opens a door. Footsteps again, a bit slower now. At last he is inside Eddie’s reading room.

‘Hello, Christer! Are you there? Hello?’ Titus shouts loudly.

The locksmith looks into the room and stares at him, all eyes.

‘No, I’m called Tommy. Not Christer.’

‘Oops, I didn’t mean you. I’m talking on the phone,’ says Titus and makes a hushing gesture with his hand.

‘Christer, are you there?’

‘I’m here. The room is empty. There is no Eddie X here. No books either. Nothing.’

‘Are you sure it’s the right room?’

‘Yes, of course. But hang on. There is a note attached to the desk lamp.’

‘What? A note? Read what it says! What does it say?’

‘It says: “Eddie X wishes everybody the best summer in the world”, in capital letters.’

Now it's war. Titus is not going to give in without a fight. If Eddie X has stolen Titus' book idea, he has no choice. He shall render him harmless for all time. For an eternity of eternities. That is an author's only real privilege: to be able to crucify the objects of his hatred as long as the paper and the printer's ink in the book lasts.

Serial Salvador is going to borrow some features from Eddie. Or rather: Serial Salvador
is
Eddie X. When HÃ¥kan Rink really gets to know his adversary, towards the end of the book, he will pull his trousers down once and for all. He shall hunt him down, lock him up, humiliate him. Peel off his personality and put his rotting insides on display for general despair and amazement. The readers shall come to hate this beloved person. The handsome boy in the house next door shall be transformed into a bestial serial killer. Then the mob shall whip him to death. Shut him up in a torture chamber. A cold dug-out, a damp godforsaken abandoned earth cellar. Bury him alive. Stamp on his grave. Knock over his gravestone. Piss on him. Strip him of every last vestige of human dignity for all time.

These inspiring images drive Titus forward.

He sees himself as a victim of crime. Somebody has broken into his home. Somebody has tried to rob him of his brain, ideas and vital energy. The wrongs are unforgivable.

It would be easy to expect that these misfortunes would floor him and send him back to the haze of drugs, spirits and nicotine. But, strange though it may seem, he gains strength from adversity. Better to be obsessed than dependent, that's his mantra. Titus delights in the force of the writers' battle. Eddie can sit there and thumb through bestsellers as much as he wants. Try to copy styles and themes. An idiotic idea. Eddie hasn't got a chance against Titus' fury.

Titus is in the midst of his best period ever as an author. He writes in six-hour sessions without leaving his chair, for at least two sessions a day. During his breaks, he eats, exercises, goes on the sunbed, and sleeps. He flosses his teeth regularly, and is rapidly losing weight although his muscles are getting bigger. He likes himself more and more.

He searches the Internet and returns to the library to find
information that supports his story. Not once does he sneak a look at how other bestselling authors have done it. It's great to let yourself be inspired, he thinks. But to inspire, that is even greater. He is on the right track.

Titus and his manuscript are slowly but surely developing into magnificent specimens.

The weeks go by.

The oppressive heat of July turns into the more relaxed summer feeling of August. The old lady on the balcony next door sorts the mushrooms she has picked, or weeds her flower boxes.

The evenings start to get darker.

Titus works away.

Better to be obsessed than dependent. This is my job. Trees grow up towards the sky, birds fly through the air, waves lap against the shore. And me? I write masterpieces, Titus thinks.

Sometimes Titus wonders what Eddie is doing. How far has he got? Will it be good? Or is it only about love? Despite Titus' growing self-esteem, there is every reason to worry about the
situation
. He must think realistically. Eddie is a skilled craftsman. He can perform tricks with the alphabet. At the same time, Titus wonders if Eddie has the ability to concentrate; a writer of novels must be able to shut himself in for long periods, with only himself for company. Can Eddie really manage that?

He wishes he could tell Astra that he is racing against Eddie
when he writes, but of course he can't tell her. When he sold her the idea, he hadn't mentioned Eddie at all, he had simply said that he had thought up a brilliant idea for a book, not that it was something he had cooked up together with Sweden's hottest contemporary poet during a very drunken night. And that the poet was published by Babelfish, one of Winchester's fiercest rivals! If Astra had known that, she would never have got Evita to back him, and he would still be sitting at the Association Bar and smelling like an ashtray. Now it was too late, he must go through with it.

Besides, he can hardly prove that Lenny did the break-in at Eddie's bidding. He can't even prove that it was Lenny who was inside his flat, and now it was probably far too late to secure fingerprints. Plus the police were not nearly as alert in reality as Chief Inspector Rink and his colleagues – they would just yawn and laugh at his accusations. What crime had been committed, did you say? Some unauthorised person has blown into the breathalyser lock on your computer?

And as if that wasn't enough, he is forced to play a double game hereafter. Astra and her computer demand total sobriety. He has come to appreciate that, it's not a problem. But he did risk it all when he openly showed Lenny that he was sober and alert, talked about the writing he was busy with, mentioned how hard he worked. That sort of talk put everything at risk. No, he doesn't need any more gold-diggers wondering what it was that had revitalised him. From now on, he must play the old faded Titus Jensen if he is going to manage to keep the competition at bay: tipsy, seedy-looking, lean and cold under the surface. That can work. He has learnt so much about himself this summer; if anyone can portray the tired old Titus Jensen, then it is the new strong Titus Jensen!

That's how it must be. He has painted himself into a corner. Now he is standing there, surrounded, pushed up against the wall.

But he has a fucking great manuscript on his hard drive.

Almost finished!

A bit too good to be true?