The Best Book in the World (14 page)

There is a delightful atmosphere. All three feel that they are important parts of something exciting and great.

Then the doorbell rings.

T
he bright yellow silk shirt is unbuttoned almost down to his navel. His taut chest is tanned and freshly shaven. Even his nipples look tanned. Eddie X is leaning against the doorpost, twirling a strand of orange hair around his fingers, when Astra opens the door. His brown eyes smile. His white teeth glow.

‘Astra, beautiful Astra. May I offer you my simple company?’

When Astra sees Eddie standing there she lights up like a sun.

‘Hi, Eddie! Oh dear, we are in the middle of a little meeting.’

That doesn’t stop Eddie. He steps into the hall and looks into the living room.

He smiles at Evita, who radiates happiness. She instinctively pushes her bosom out a little and turns her head to one side without losing eye contact. You look your slimmest like that.

Eddie even smiles at Titus Jensen, who looks as if he has lost his winning lottery ticket… Titus’ chin drops a little, and if you had looked really closely would have noticed that his tongue was resting like a small piece of steak on his lower lip and the bottom row of teeth. It is obvious that Eddie’s entrance affects different people in different ways.

A poet who sells well is unusual, and Evita Winchester is of course not slow to turn on the charm for the new national poet. You always have to keep the door open for new sales possibilities. She is proud to see that Astra has the same attitude and has got to know Eddie so well that he even comes to visit her at home.

‘Come in, Eddie. What a fantastically amusing
Summer
programme you did! I listened to it when I was out on the island. It seems as if everybody in the country heard it.’

‘Thank you, do you really think so? It cheers me to hear you say that. May I take a seat?’

Eddie doesn’t wait for an answer, but sits down beside Titus. Titus is speechless, and just stares. What is he doing here? What is this all about? What’s happening? A moment ago, he was happy and full of energy. Now he is deflating like a leaking balloon.

At the same time, the room is filled with Eddie’s self-confidence. He puts up both arms on the back of the sofa.

‘Has Astra told you that we’ve started dating?’

Astra blushes behind her tan, and lets out a little giggle.

‘Dating? Now take it easy, Eddie. We have had dinner together on one occasion.’

‘Yes, and it was the best dinner I have eaten in all my life. I don’t remember what we ate, but I do remember every single word we said and every single look you gave me. A magical evening with twinkling stars and a twinkling Astra.’

Evita laughs at Eddie’s romantic torrent of words. As usual with Eddie, it never feels ridiculous, just feels heartfelt and delicate. Evita really thinks he means what he says. She looks at Astra.

Astra is seized by the giggles. In the course of a minute she has been transformed from a businesslike publisher to a crooning maiden.

Titus wonders what on earth is happening. If this isn’t a question of intellectual espionage then I’ll eat my hat, he thinks. Is he really so terribly cunning that he is going to seduce Astra and try to pump her for information about the project? How much has he found out already?

He must warn Astra in some way, and demand an oath of
confidentiality
. At the same time, he is convinced that he would risk everything if he revealed that Eddie knows about the book idea. Both Astra and Evita could feel cheated. Who knows, they might be furious and cancel the whole thing.

Besides, there is no reason to show Eddie how smart and alert he is now. Rather the opposite, he ought to act like the old Titus. In Eddie’s world, Titus is a pathetic specimen. Let sleeping dogs lie!

He slides down a little lower on the sofa and tries to look tired and a bit the worse for wear.

‘You seem to be having a good time,’ says Eddie jovially.

‘Yes, indeed,’ says Evita, ‘We’re sitting here discussing the future. The idea is to publish a paperback trilogy with
Storm Clouds, Treacherous Charades
and
Baroque in Their Blood.
Completely black covers with dark grey typography in relief on the front, perhaps with Titus’ eyes looking straight through the reader. It feels rather exciting to do all three together, don’t you think?’

Wow, that woman knows what she is doing, thinks Titus, and feels a little less concerned. He can evidently rely on her. But what about Astra?

‘An excellent idea,’ says Eddie the full-blooded diplomat. ‘I love everything Titus has done, and everything he’s going to do. Titus is a piece of Swedish literary history.’

Titus pretends to hiccup. At least that is easier than trying to say something. Eddie looks at him.

‘How are you doing, Titus?’

‘
Comme ci, comme ça.
I am fairly tired,’ he says, trying to rasp.

‘What a coincidence that you are here! I’ve been thinking of asking if you can come and do a reading at Södra Teatern on 6 September. They’re arranging the Spoken Word Festival there and it would be a wonderful bonus if you could come, people love it when you read. I shall be the MC and will be doing some of my own things between the acts.’

Titus starts to perspire. How can be wriggle out of this? No way is he going to humiliate himself and read nonsense in front of a guffawing crowd. Not now that he has sorted his head out.

‘Err, well, I don’t know…’

‘Come on, it’d be really great, Titus. And the fee is four thousand kronor, too.’

Four thousand! Titus hasn’t got much in his bank account. A reading would actually mean a considerable improvement in his situation. Four thousand? How does that work? He gets four thousand to read nonsense, about one month’s worth of his annual royalties, and that for books that have taken several years to write. It is just daft.

‘Yeah… well… I suppose I could do it.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. Great!’

The small talk goes on for a little while and Eddie continues to dominate the room. He lists the names of the international guests who will be coming to the Poetry Slam Festival, he speaks of all the emails he has received since the
Summer
programme, and he reveals that the entire programme will be issued as a double CD with extra material ready for the Christmas shopping season. Evita wonders how clever it is to release a summer CD in the winter. Astra says that it might work because it’s a sort of ‘opposite approach’. ‘Exactly!’ Eddie shouts. Evita hums and haws. Titus sits and nods, trying to look tired and a bit tipsy. No way is he going to reveal that he is a viable human being in front of Eddie X.

Astra and Evita don’t notice how weirdly Titus is behaving since all their attention is focused on Eddie and what he says.

‘But I haven’t come to talk about myself,’ says Eddie suddenly, and looks solemnly at Astra. ‘It’s such a lovely day that I thought I’d ask you if you want to come for an evening sail in my boat. I have a little Neptun cruising yacht called
Come Aboard Amour.
It’s moored by the Blockhus promontory out on Djurgården. I thought we could go round the islands in the sunset and then I’d serve you dinner in the cockpit. What do you say, Astra?’

Astra looks in open-eyed wonder at Eddie X. What sort of guy rushes into somebody else’s business meeting and invites them to a romantic dinner? You can’t help but admire his self-confidence. And you can’t help but love him.

‘That sounds super, Eddie. Of course I’ll come!’

‘Great, then I’ll pick you up at six. Is that okay?’

‘Absolutely. Aye, aye, captain!’ Astra giggles.

Eddie gets up to leave. When he passes Astra he lets his hand caress her shoulders. He says he can find his own way out. Both Evita and Titus stare openly at Eddie when he goes out through the room. If a resurrected Jesus had gone through the room at the same time, nobody would have seen anyone but Eddie.

Astra, Evita and Titus sit in silence for a few moments after the romantic wind has blown the outer door shut.

Titus can’t restrain himself any longer. He must give expression to his worry.

‘Do you think that he… I mean, why did he come just now? Was it just a coincidence or…’

Astra looks surprised. She has no idea what he is getting at.

‘What? No, but, well of course he knows where I live. I told him that when we were out eating.’

Evita is equally unable to grasp what Titus is worried about.

‘He’s just delightful! Entirely governed by impulse. He must have been nearby, the sun was shining, and he felt that he wanted to sail this evening. No sooner said than arranged. And now he has a date.’

There is a vacant look on Titus’ face. He is absolutely convinced that Eddie X is more interested in getting hold of book ideas than in getting hold of sailors. Besides, he knows how men function. The hunt comes before romance.

‘Please Astra, you must promise me not to mention
The Best Book in the World.
Not to a soul, and especially not to Eddie.’

‘But of course, Titus! Why ever would I do that? You can trust me.
The Best Book in the World
stays between the three of us.’

Titus gives a wry smile. He is by no means convinced.

T
itus totters out onto the street outside Astra’s flat. Astra’s coffee was not at all satisfying. The coffee is good of course, and the milk hot and frothy. But where are the cakes and biscuits? Not a bun to be seen! No cakes, no sandwiches, no Danish pastries, no croissants, nothing. The only thing on the table was an enormous fruit bowl: organic fairtrade bananas, apples and plums. Sure, fruit can be tasty, but it isn’t what you expect when you go for a coffee. If you have fruit with coffee it ends up as something quite different to a coffee break – a damned fruit break, like in a children’s nursery. A jolly little fruit break. Kumbaya, my lord. Titus gets the shivers when he thinks about himself as a little boy at nursery school. It was on the whole quite unusual for kids to go to nursery when he was little, most stayed at home with their mothers, playing in the yard with nice new toys from the new Co-op department store. Miniature mechanical diggers. Footballs made of real leather. But not Titus. His mum cleaned offices instead of looking after him, and since he was delicate and a bit different, he always got to sit next to teacher when they assembled for a sing-song in the afternoon after the outdoor break. They all sat in a circle on the grey-beige linoleum floor and held each other’s hands. Miss Leaf (Titus had never heard her first name) had cold sweaty hands and fluttering but kind eyes with little lumps of that black stuff on her eyelashes. A shrill voice: Kumbaya my lord, Kumbayaaaah! Morgan sat on the other side of Titus. Meany Morgan. He had tough paws and he used to mangle Titus’ hand so that his fingers sort of rolled up inside Morgan’s dirty fist, back and forth until his little hand was round as a cigar. Morgan’s victory cigar. Scornful milk-teeth pegs. And then – fruit break. Brown-spotted bananas. Soft apples.
Morgan’s teeth-marks. Swedish nursery schools in the shadow of the expanding welfare state in the early 1970s.

Titus is hungry and dissatisfied. He is not only in a bad mood because fruit acids and coffee are extremely unsuited to each other. Most of all he is angry with himself. He doesn’t function properly in company any longer, he just sits and is grumpy as soon as he meets anybody. He doesn’t participate, just juggles with a whole load of unfounded suspicions inside his own brain that slowly but surely is being transformed into a centrifuge that is out of balance. And the idea of pretending to be more or less tipsy, what nonsense! Damn it, he is an adult, he tries to convince himself.

Titus must cure himself. First something to eat that is rich in proteins and carbohydrates. Then he needs the company of an old friend or colleague to get a bit of perspective on life. Perhaps he has quite simply imagined that Eddie X is out to get him? What proof does he actually have? A weird meeting at the City Library, a
Summer
programme that wasn’t about what Eddie said it would be, a forgotten note with a cryptic message, an imagined break-in without any witnesses and with nothing missing – just the lid of the laptop that had been lifted up. Hardly something to turn out Interpol over. A police investigation wouldn’t even call that circumstantial evidence; Håkan Rink would just have snorted and muttered something about his NPNC-doctrine: No Proof, No Crime. No, Eddie was probably fully occupied with charming the world. He couldn’t give a damn about me, Titus thinks. Or could he?

Titus walks past a sign announcing:
Dish of the day, fifty kronor.
Irresistible, without a doubt. There is a solitary but nice table outside the Chinese restaurant. He takes a seat and waits for someone to take his order.

Eddie’s Neptun yacht is well looked after down to the tiniest detail. The cover on the deck is painted in a dark lilac colour, the hull in a lighter lilac tone, with large ornamental letters from midships in black:
Come aboard amour.
One might well assume that Eddie had christened the boat; the name matches his poetry perfectly.
But it was the first owner, the legendary entertainer Sven-Bertil Taube, who named his shining new yacht at the boatyard together with his wife at the time, Inger. The name is said to have come about by chance when the elegant gentleman held out his hand to help her aboard. To rename a boat means bad luck, and Eddie X would never deliberately court ill fortune. Besides, he is certain that he garners considerable benefit from the amorous Taube inheritance, and he never misses the opportunity to tell the story.

The mast is of rigid and sturdy Oregon pine. All the ropes run across the roof of the cabin back to the cockpit so that the boat can be sailed by a solitary person without them needing to leave the helm. Eddie likes to be in control. He also has a considerable weakness for the old-fashioned romantic world of sailing. For example, all plastic is forbidden on board; you must eat on proper china and drink from proper glasses. When dishes are to be washed, or decks be scrubbed, you haul up the water with a bucket made of waxed sailcloth. That’s what Sven-Bertil used to do too, according to Eddie. The bunks in the cabin have
chalk-white
cotton sheets and old eiderdown bedding, which can get a little damp if it rains, but no worse than can be steamed away with a few old oil lamps.

Eddie has timed his sailing tour with Astra perfectly. When the hot afternoon air finally leaves Stockholm’s roofs and slowly rises, the vacuum is filled with cooler air from the archipelago which in turn is chased inland by the almost cold air in the open Baltic. As soon as they have left the jetty, the lukewarm onshore wind catches the foresail and the mainsail. The Neptun cruiser sets off like a spear through the water. Adrenalin and a sense of well-being spread through Eddie as the water ripples all the faster around the bows. He looks up at the sail, now perfectly taut in the light wind. He trims the mainsail further and the boat heels a little more. Astra is sitting on the lee side in an orange Helly Hansen life-vest from the 1960s. When the water splashes up beside the railing, she starts to laugh.

‘Eddie, this is like a big dipper!’

‘Is it the first time for you?’

‘Yes, you must promise to be careful.’

Both become silent when they realise the ambiguity of the conversation. They look at each other. Then they burst out laughing. The ice is broken. This is going to be a wonderful evening.

Titus looks at a large heap of sticky rice and the three small pieces of deep-fried chicken. He sighs deeply and heaps soy sauce over it all in an attempt to save the meal from impoverishment. He tries to get a good grip with the chopsticks. Pah, it won’t work. He takes the fork and scoops up a first mouthful.

I need a plan of action, he thinks. If only I could do something completely different for a few hours, then perhaps I will see
everything
in a new light early tomorrow morning, probably realise that this is just some crazy paranoia and that I can forget the whole thing. Or, I’ll become even more convinced that Eddie really is trying to steal my ideas. And that would be okay too, because then I can start collecting evidence.

That seems sensible. Have a rest and take it easy. Do something else.

Titus eats slowly and reflects. Do something else. Nothing comes to him. What does it mean, do something else? What could that be? All summer long he has been crazily obsessed with the book. He hasn’t got any friends any longer. The few he had are presumably sitting at the Association Bar, ‘celebrating’ as they call it, as if they had an official excuse to be there every day like a job, an important task. They pretend to be intellectuals but all they manage to read nowadays are the evening tabloids’ sports pages. Evening after evening, the same story: today we’re celebrating that Djurgården had a home victory, today we are celebrating that they managed a draw in an away match, today we are celebrating that the Champions’ League is starting, today we are celebrating the Champions’ League final.

No, he can survive without that. He is forced to start afresh, find new friends, create a new life. Perhaps there might even be a woman in that new life, a woman who wouldn’t slam the door behind him after only a couple of days. But for the time being, that
feels extremely distant. This new sober life is bloody boring, he thinks. But at least it is a real life. Better late than never. I’m never going to touch a drop again, he thinks solemnly. It is wonderful to be boring.

He thumbs through an evening paper that an earlier guest has left behind. Is there a good cinema to go to? Stand-up comedy?

‘Now we’re going to feast on prawns!’ Eddie shouts.

Come aboard amour
has berthed beside some flat rocks in a little bay on the western side of the Fjäderholm islands, a mini archipelago between Lidingö and Nacka. The sun still warms you, and the August darkness won’t overtake the evening for a couple more hours.

Believe it or not, Eddie even has a cooler from the 1940s in varnished mahogany. It is full of ice and contains two bottles of wine. Astra laughs at Eddie’s weird equipment.

‘Lovely, Eddie. Yes, I’m ravenous. And thirsty.’

Eddie has rigged up an old picnic table in the cockpit. On the thwarts he has laid out piles of blue sailing cushions with short white bobbles in the middle. There are linen serviettes and he has even managed to make some toast in the storm kitchen’s frying pan. He lifts the lid on an old ceramic jar and smells the contents.

‘Ah! This is delightful chili mayonnaise. I made it myself from my mother’s recipe.’

They eat the prawns, throwing the shells overboard as they go. Lots of small and medium-sized fish snap up the bits and swim to the nearest tuft of seaweed to continue the feast in peace and quiet. The little bay bubbles with sensual pleasure.

‘Here’s to the month of August. Cheers!’ says Eddie, and raises his old crystal glass. The locks of his hair are matted from the wind.

‘Cheers for letting me come along!’ Astra responds, and her hair is just as matted. Her camisole is all askew, slipping down one shoulder.

‘Cheers for your
wanting
to come along!’

‘Cheers for all of this.’

‘Cheers.’

The newspaper has four spreads with tips for activities, but Titus can’t find anything to do. He is simply unable to shake off his paranoia. How can he possibly relax now, knowing that Eddie and Astra are out sailing together? Of course Eddie is pumping Astra for all she knows about Titus, and how easy can it be to resist Eddie’s charms when he turns on the charm? He’ll certainly be trying to wheedle out of her details about
The Best Book in the World.
She is probably quite capable of slipping out of his clutches, but still… How long can she resist him? Titus is absolutely convinced that the only thing going on inside Eddie’s brain is the creation of an immortal masterpiece – at Titus’ expense.

He is facing a situation that most people never find themselves in during their whole life. This very evening, his entire future will be decided. He can let Eddie X reign, or he can take charge of the situation and make sure he can realise his plans without Eddie putting obstacles in his way just as he approaches the finishing line. Attack is the best defence, and if he must fight this battle without allies then so be it.

He puts a fifty-kronor note on the table and gets up. He stands erect, with a determined look. It is wonderfully boring to be sober. Damned unpleasant, but refreshing at the same time, like taking an ice-cold shower. Better to be obsessed than dependent.

And better to break into somebody’s house than let your
masterpiece
be appropriated by a handsome romantic poet.

The wine bottles are empty. The last rays of the sun are slowly being tucked away in the cumulus clouds over the rooftops of northern Djurgården. The evening breeze has blown away and there is not a ripple on the water. The oil lamps are lit and ready to struggle against the darkness of night.

Now Eddie serves freshly brewed coffee and ice-cold Carlshamn Flaggpunsch. The charged atmosphere has been further filled with laughter and talk. Eddie tells about when he and some friends sailed into Sandhamn stark naked during the big Gotland sailing race week. The old guys in the luxury yachts did not appreciate the naked teenagers at all, but the few luxury wives and mistresses
that had been allowed to accompany them appreciated the boys all the more.

The mood by the jetty became somewhat agitated, to put it mildly, and in the end a fat harbour master wearing a yacht-club blazer came and informed them that they were not following the ‘regatta dress code’. They could either get dressed that very minute or he would arrange a forced transfer to the Stavsnäs winter port. Eddie imitates the harbour master. He stands up, salutes and clicks his heels together.

Astra almost chokes with laughter.

They are having a good time together.

And it’s going to get even better.

Titus has guessed right. Since Eddie too lives in an old listed building, the locks are just as old and useless as they were at his own place. It is not difficult to find Eddie’s door: a big heart cut out from an old red blanket decorates it. The pointed end of the heart ends with an arrow indicating the letter box. ‘Put love letters here!’ announces a little handwritten note.

It is easy to force the lock bolt back with some pressure from two credit cards pushed together into the door chink. Titus silently thanks the locksmith.

He sneaks into Eddie’s flat. It looks as if somebody has thrown a feng-shui bomb into the place: two rooms and a kitchen and not a single superfluous object to be seen. White ceiling, white walls, white lye-treated floor planks, white curtains, white-stained old kitchen chairs and wooden furniture. Almost everything is white except for an enormous bed-cum-sofa which takes up a large part of the gigantic room. The place is full of colourful cushions of different sizes, and one of the shorter walls is covered with a floor-to-ceiling poster of a naked couple walking on a beach with a setting sun in the background. The contrast of the light room and the kitschy poster is fascinating; Titus remains standing there for a few moments before he enters the other room. As expected, there is a desk and a computer. The little study has more of the character of a traditional writer’s den – the walls are covered with
bulging bookshelves, and books, brochures, newspapers, clippings and print-outs cover the greater part of the floor.