The Best Book in the World (7 page)

Titus is taken unawares by the question even though over the years he has learnt to never talk about a book he is working on. It gives the whole project bad karma. Expectations are every author’s worst enemy, so you should never try to describe a book yourself. Not when it’s finished, and even less before it has been written. When the book is ready, it must manage on its own.

‘Yeah, well, I’m busy working on a synopsis for some things. Talking a bit to the publishers and that.’

Titus feels uncomfortable. This is no good. It is simply crazy to be sitting drinking coffee with a guy who sits there making small weird blowing sounds all the time. He ought to be working instead of wasting time. The days pass and he must actually catch a mad serial killer. And bearing in mind that he has never been anywhere near writing a crime novel, it’s high time to get on with it.

‘W-will it be g-good, then?’ Lenny asks.

‘What?’

‘Y-your b-book, of course.’

‘Book? Oh, we’ll see how it turns out,’ says Titus and tries to prevent his eyes from going all over the place. He doesn’t like Lenny prying about the book. Which book? Titus’ book is nothing that is any concern of Lenny’s.

‘You know, Lenny, I must be getting along. Work calls.’

‘Oh my God. You too. I’m so impressed by you all.’

‘Us?’

‘Yes, I only know two authors. And both of you work as if you were possessed, it seems.’

Titus feels that in his solar plexus. What does he mean?
Who
does he mean?

‘Who else do you mean?’ says Titus slowly although he knows very well who Lenny means.

‘Eddie X. He is working like a madman too. I have hardly seen him since the festival.’

When Titus hears the three syllables of Eddie X’s name, he feels the blood draining away from his head. He is forced to hold the table with both hands so as not to fall off his chair.

‘Oh really… Eddie,’ he says, but silently thinks to himself: fuck, fuck, fuck. Then it’s true, his worst suspicion is confirmed.

‘H-he doesn’t p-poke his nose outside the door. Just works, works, works. Day and night.’

‘With what?’ Titus hears himself asking.

He feels paralysed. If Eddie X has started working on his version of
The Best Book in the World,
then Titus has been robbed of his victory. People love everything that Eddie touches. Sure, Titus is a living legend too. Respected on the arts pages. Hunted by the gossip press. But Eddie X is much more than that. He is a saint. The day he stops writing poems and starts writing novels, he’ll get millions of readers and become a millionaire without even trying. Titus must know. Have the judge pronounce sentence. What is Eddie working on?

‘H-he says he is working on his summer radio programme. It’s being broadcast next week. But I don’t know, he doesn’t usually take that radio stuff so seriously. It’s the third time he has done the summer programme and he didn’t work especially hard even on the first one. He’s got it all inside his head. He only has to turn on the tap. But, of course, perhaps it takes time to choose the music.’

The beloved Eddie X is slaving away like an animal with a project that is probably going to make him immortal. Meanwhile, the soot-black has-been Titus Jensen is sitting here drinking in a café with a spasmodic blowfish.

If there is any justice at all in this world, then it is high time it starts doing its job.

Competition is not a whip that usually cracks behind Titus. But when it does finally sing through the air in Titus’ flat, it sends his adrenaline levels sky high.

Now it is a matter of ping-pong. There is no time to play tactically and plan in detail. No, what he must do is smash every ball that comes his way. Since he has a good overview of the plot of the book in his head, he can allow himself to churn out the various chapters in any order. Then he can cut and paste.

He blow-starts the computer and savours a brilliant idea:

Is he good, or is he good? Thousands of slimming books can go to hell. Millions of magazine and newspaper articles can go and hide in the corner. The ABC-method, the best slimming method in the world, fits on a postcard, Titus thinks quietly, and closes the lid of the laptop.

He wonders about Eddie X. How far has he got? Can that man really write about anything other than love?

Titus is reminded of an article about positive and negative energy that he read some years ago. A team of scientists had compared the ability of people to solve difficult problems. One group that was studied comprised people who used positive thinking and liked to work with target images. Those people saw
the final reward as the best way to provide motivation for success. When you know
why
you should succeed, then you
will
succeed. This positive method is often used by athletes. The other group was the pessimists. As soon as they were given a task they became grumpy and started looking for problems. What were the obstacles that would prevent them from succeeding? When was the most likely time the whole thing would get screwed up? In their
workplaces
they were often called whiners. For the pessimists, it was completely rational to think about failure from the very first. It was a matter of mapping out and evaluating the problems before they started work. The results of the study were very interesting. Both groups succeeded well with their tasks. It transpired that optimists and pessimists were just as good at achieving good results. The important thing was to find the method that best suited one’s
character
. An optimist gets terrified if you talk about problems instead of faith, hope and love; a pessimist is suspicious of anything not based on facts.

Titus remembers how liberating he thought this study was. There was just as much hope for the coal-black prophets of woe as there was for the warbling optimists. At the same time, it was tiring to think about how well these ridiculous self-help books sold, and how much all the optimist consultants earned. Why was that so? Who had even heard of a multi-millionaire who had got rich by claiming that everything gets screwed up? It must be because the optimists have access to the media, and that the pessimists are discriminated against. At a guess, the pessimists earn a fraction of the salary of the optimists even though they do just as good a job. Equal wages for unequal mouths! That should be the slogan.

Titus is determined to do everything in his power to confirm the study. He is going to be literature’s Cathy Freeman: a feted pessimist at the kernel of optimism. The aboriginal and asthmatic runner from Australia dominated the 400-metre tracks around the turn of the century, and harvested lots of Olympic and World Championship medals. She belonged to the indigenous
population
that had been declared incapable of running their own country and had been cowed by the white colonial optimists for
hundreds of years. Every time she won, she looked a bit uncomfortable because the next time she would probably screw it up. Why celebrate with the public now? At the next competition, all those white teeth would scornfully laugh when she lost. But perhaps, perhaps, she could nevertheless be able to try again. If only she prepared a bit better, trained a bit more intensively, a bit longer, a bit more often.

Preparation and facts make for proficiency. Since I am basically a gloomy pessimist, I must devote myself to facts, Titus thinks.
The Best Book in the World
shall be written with the best research in the world.

The boy at the woman’s bosom may well be a positive and fine image to quickly counter the craving for poison.

But if the sceptic didn’t get more nourishment, it would all get screwed up.

W
hen the city library opens in the morning, Titus is the first to enter. He has slept well, and almost runs up the long steps.

Behind the counter stands an erect and correct man with a rather strange appearance. He has all the necessary requirements to be strikingly handsome: thick brown back-combed hair, clear-cut features with distinct and forceful cheekbones and young-looking skin, almost a little rose-coloured. He has a relaxed smile but there is a trace of shyness in his eyes. If only he had spent a little more time outside the library, he would have been handsomely furrowed. If only he had eaten something other than salads in the lunchroom, he would have looked forceful. Now he sticks out a bit with his pointed face and his thin wrists, like a prototype of a good-looking man that never left the dream factory. He is
almost
beautiful.

Titus is familiar with the prototype. He has met him at book fairs and various writers’ gatherings. His name is Christer Hermansson and he divides his life between the books he has written himself and books that others have written. In his role as a librarian, he is also one of Sweden’s most influential innovators and debaters in the subject. Titus doesn’t know much about libraries, but is a great admirer of the warped humour in Christer’s books.

‘Christer! Hi, what are you doing here?’ says Titus, and is
genuinely
pleased to see him.

‘
Ich bin ein bibliothekar
!’ says Hermansson and stands to attention, knocking the soles of his Birkenstock sandals together.

Ich bin ein bibliothekar
is also the title of one of his books. This is quite clearly a man who takes the expression ‘live your life like a book’ seriously.

‘Ha, ha,’ Titus laughs. ‘I know, but I thought you worked in Södertälje.’

‘My boss, Eva Larsson, carried out an excellent reorganisation of the entire region. Now I’ve been posted here for a year to replace the legendary librarian Oliver C. Johansson! The C stands for Cromwell. For the time being, Oliver is the acting head of department of cultural services in Strängness. The general impression is that he won’t be there very long. There is talk of malign narcissism. He has evidently used dubious methods to try to buy out the entire library services in the Mälardal region with the help of venture capitalists. According to their slogan, they’re going to offer “wide-ranging experiences for the people”. But, whatever – I am the acting director of the library! Here and now!’

‘I see… congratulations are in order then,’ says Titus, who is slightly surprised by the formal tone and the long explanation.

Outside the library walls, Christer is a totally different person who likes to boast about his tennis skills and his literary successes: ‘The critics loooooove me.’ But at work he is evidently down-to-earth and irreproachable.

‘And how can I help you, Titus? Something about the rise and fall of the Roman Empire?’

‘No thank you,’ says Titus, and curses his parents for calling him Titus. Always these jokes about emperors and the Roman Empire.

‘I’m working on an essay about reading habits and need some help with something special. First I need to get hold of all the copies of
The Swedish Bookseller
magazine from the last five years. Then I want to borrow all the books that have been on their various bestseller of the month lists for the same period.’

‘Aha! Glad to hear it – you have come to the right place. We love tasks like that. We’ll fix it. If you go and have a cup of coffee, it will be ready in about fifteen minutes. The Dan Brown books might be out on loan. They usually are.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ says Titus, and breaks into a smile. He had envisaged having to run around the shelves himself to pick up the books. What service!

When he walks towards the café, he sees Christer Hermansson gather several colleagues and gives them orders. Wonderful
people, these library types, Titus thinks. They really do a great job on the quiet.

The library gradually starts to fill with people, mainly students and pensioners who graze among the newspapers and the books. The silence is pleasant. In the same way that voice volumes are turned down, the visitors move around slowly, as if a sudden movement would be just as disturbing as a loud noise. I must come here more often, thinks Titus.

En route to the café, he passes a lecture hall and some small reading rooms. The door to one of the rooms is ajar. At the far end of the room sits a student with a hairstyle that is almost as brilliantly coloured as that of Eddie X. He is studying and the desk is cluttered with books. His face is buried in his hands.

Ah, there’s the café, over there. Or, to be more exact, the coffee machine. Titus puts in a few coins and presses the button for ordinary black coffee. The café is fairly empty and there are plenty of free tables. Titus sits on a chair right in the corner and thinks for a while. He already knows quite well what is going to happen in
The Best Book in the World.
Perhaps it is a bit over-the-top to be doing all this thorough research? What he really ought to be doing is sitting and writing. After twenty novels, he has mastered the form of the novel, so the actual structure isn’t going to be a problem. Above all, what he needs to improve is the non-fiction genre. Facts, facts, facts. He must, amongst other things, get hold of the best pizza recipe in the world, humour to knock you over, and a management book that promises salvation. He has already dealt with the slimming thing with the ABC method. And he has also got quite a long way with giving up smoking and drinking thanks to the threat and reward images. He can easily include them in the chief inspector’s life. You can’t have too much sex, so he will have to read up on that. Not to mention therapy. He must absolutely be the best at therapy.

His thoughts are suddenly interrupted by his mobile ringing. He sees on the display that it is from a withheld number. He retreats as far as he can into his corner so that he won’t disturb those around him when he answers in as quiet a voice as possible.

‘Yes, this is Titus Jensen.’

‘Hello, Titus, hello. My name is Fabian Nadersson. Can you spare a moment?’

‘Er, well, I suppose so. What’s it about?’

‘Well, Titus, I am ringing on behalf of Mensa. They have a special offer just for you, Titus.’

‘What? Mensa? You mean that club that only admits intelligent people?’

‘Yes, exactly, Titus. Now you can buy an interactive training package for only two hundred and ninety-nine kronor, you see. With this package you will be able to improve your IQ. Then you can apply for membership of Mensa.’

‘What do you mean? Should I buy an intelligence test for two hundred and ninety-nine kronor? And why would I want to join Mensa?’

‘Mensa is a worldwide network. You can gain great advantage from being a member of Mensa.’

‘In what way?’

‘Well, you can meet people of a like mind. Other gifted people that you can share experiences with. That’s exactly what it’s about, Titus! Yes, indeed. Shall I sign you up for a training package?’

‘If I am smart enough to be in Mensa, is it people like you that I will come across if I wanted to become a member?’

‘No, unfortunately. I am only an agent for their online courses. I am not a member myself.’

‘So you haven’t gone on the course?’

‘Yes, but I am not a member…’

‘You mean you didn’t pass the test?’

‘Er… I have a mate who bought the training package. It took him two weeks and then he became a full member.’

‘But answer my question! Would you yourself want to be a member of Mensa?’

‘Yes, of course. Everybody would, surely? Does a training package sound interesting? Only two hundred and ninety-nine kronor if you order it now, during the summer.’

‘No, I don’t think so. I don’t understand why people with a certain IQ would have anything in common. You might just as
well start clubs for people with a particular skin colour. And no thank you, we’ve seen enough of that sort of club in history.’

‘So you want me to book you down for a training package?’

‘
No
! Do you have difficulties in understanding?’

‘Okay, Titus. Thank you anyway. Have a nice day!’

Titus shakes his head. Intelligence is an uninteresting measure of a person’s gifts. It is like trying to pick out the best colour in a painting. It’s the composition and the combination of colours that determine whether a painting is good, not how many litres of paint have been used. Besides, intelligence is far too abstract a concept. It is almost impossible to conceive of a life with a different intelligence than the one you are equipped with yourself. Ask anyone at all if they want to change their appearance or get a higher IQ and they are guaranteed to choose bigger breasts, a smaller tummy, fuller lips or a super-equipped cock.

When Titus returns to the lending counter, Christer Hermansson looks grim.

‘Sorry, Titus. I have bad news.’

‘What has happened?’

‘The books are already out on loan.’

Inside Titus’s corduroy jacket, his heart goes sour.

‘All of them?’

‘Every single one,’ says Christer Hermansson and twitches his head a couple of degrees backwards and upwards. He blinks slightly nervously.

‘To whom?’ Titus hisses.

‘We can’t, of course, say that. We are very strict about library confidentiality.’

‘What damned library confidentiality?’ Titus shouts. ‘Just tell me who has borrowed my books!’

‘Now, shall we calm down a little? To start with, they are not your books. They are the library’s books. We stock them in order to lend them to the public. And now they have been borrowed. By a member of the public. Or several. The books you have asked for are in fact very popular. That’s how it is.’

Curses! Titus realises that it is Eddie X of course who has
borrowed the books. It isn’t enough that he has stolen Titus’ basic idea of writing
The Best Book in the World.
He has also pinched Titus’ working method!

Another piece drops into place. The student with the same hairdo as Eddie X, up there in the reading room that he went past just a few minutes ago, is of course not a student. It is Eddie X! He’s sitting here, in the middle of Stockholm, at the City Library, and writing my book!

Titus rushes down the stairs and off down the corridor that leads to the lecture halls and the reading rooms. Which one was it? He tears open door after door. Empty. Nobody there. No Eddie, anyway. Has he imagined it all? When he reaches the last door, he stops and catches his breath for a moment. What shall he actually say to Eddie?

He grabs the doorknob. Locked! He knocks on the door. No answer. He knocks harder and puts his mouth against the keyhole.

‘Hello, is somebody in there?’

Not a sound. He bangs the underside of his fist against the door. Hard, time after time.

‘Hello!’

Suddenly he hears the sound of a chair being moved across the floor. Somebody’s there!

‘Open the door!’

‘Hello?’ says a weak voice from inside. ‘Yes, what do you want?’

‘Open the door, I want to talk to you!’

There is silence for a few moments. Then the key is turned on the inside. The door is slowly pushed ajar. Eddie’s brown
teddy-bear
eyes peep out through the chink. Titus tries to push the door further open, but Eddie has evidently put something against it. It won’t give an inch. Eddie breaks into a smile inside the little opening.

‘Hi, Titus! Great to see you!’

‘What are you doing, Eddie? What on earth are you doing?’

‘Haha,’ Eddie gives a friendly laugh. ‘Are you working for the police now, what’s got into you? You look stressed, Titus. You must take more care of yourself.’

Always this pleasant tone. It really gets on Titus’ nerves. Can’t you even get into a raging fury without that damn love poet starting to behave like a saint? But Eddie’s calm does its work. It always does, for everything and on everybody. Even on Titus – his pulse slows down a little.

‘Yes, well, I walked past here earlier. And then, after a long while, something clicked inside my head. It must have been Eddie sitting in there, I thought. So I went back, but then the door was locked.’

‘Oh, right, good thing you came back. It is really great to see you again!’

‘Er, yeah, same here…’

‘Are you here to borrow books?’

‘Yeah, right. That was the idea.’

‘Anything particular you’re looking for?’

‘No, not really, just scouting round a little…’

How do some people always have the ability to steer a conversation in the direction they want? Sometimes it doesn’t seem to make any difference however strong your intentions are. Sometimes there is a cat in hell’s chance of getting your way. Titus feels that the situation is running through his fingers. How can he confront Eddie with what he knows? Er…
knows
? He doesn’t actually
know
anything. He hasn’t really got a clue as to what Eddie is doing. Perhaps the whole thing is just a figment of Titus’ imagination. A phantom image of a horrible crime that says ‘pop’ and goes up in smoke as soon as you turn the light on.

But nevertheless. No smoke without fire.

Damn it, I’m stone-cold sober and 100 per cent compos mentis, Titus thinks. Of course I must be able to rely on my intuition!

‘And you, Eddie, what are you doing?’

Eddie brushes away a blue lock of hair from his eyes and loosens his colourful silk scarf, which is wrapped several times around his neck. A very solemn look spreads across his face.

‘I’m writing.’

‘Oh, yeah…?’ says Titus, and wants to hear more.

‘I’m writing something I am forced to write.’

‘Umm… I can believe that,’ Titus mumbles to himself and sees that a confession is close. He knows Eddie and realises that he isn’t bad deep inside. The guy can’t keep a secret. If he is writing
The Best Book in the World,
he’s going to say so.

‘Yeah, well, I have been prowling around this project and not been able to take the plunge. I can’t wait any longer.’