The Best Book in the World

CHAPTER 13

At the Library


When 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 S?dert?lje.’

‘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 Str?ngness. 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 M?lardal 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.’

‘No?’

‘It’s about my dad.’

‘What? Your dad?’

‘Yes, I’m trying to find out what actually happened when I was a child. You know, Titus, I regard myself as a fairly happy person. Yet there is an unpleasant darkness somewhere which sometimes drags me down. I suspect that it is my childhood that is behind it all.’

‘So now you’re going to write a book about your dad?’

‘No, no, I’m working on my summer programme. On the radio, you know. They’re broadcasting it next week, there’ll be millions of listeners. I’ve had to rethink it completely; at first I’d planned to do a programme of reminiscences interwoven with my favourite music, from when I was little up to the present day. A delightful document of the times, with lots of nostalgic touchdowns. First time I made out, the first festival, stuff like that. But then I got hooked on a Peter LeMarc song that I heard him play live long before his stage fright got the upper hand. Blue Light. Have you heard it?’

‘I don’t know…’

‘It goes something like this: “I was born under a blue light. Grew up in a blue house. Lived in a blue binge. But now I realise that there is another Sweden. I have seen that there are other colours.”’

‘Yeah, right, I think I’ve heard that.’

‘I started thinking about what the lyrics could mean to me. And then it struck me. I too grew up in a blue house. Metaphorically speaking. My dad was a nutter.’

‘A nutter?’

‘A paranoid schizophrenic,’ says Eddie. ‘He suffered from severe delusions and was often deeply depressed. He got the idea that evil people climbed into his soul and stole his goodness.’

‘Oh dear,’ says Titus. He can’t help wondering how he got here, in a heart-to-heart conversation about Eddie’s dad through a chink in the door at the City Library.

‘Sad pictures pop up out of my memory. But I don’t want to apportion guilt. I simply must find out more. So I have borrowed loads of books about this, other people’s stories about what it is like to live close to a mental illness. I have been forced to re-do the whole programme. There won’t be any laughing and kidding. I am going to turn my heart inside out instead. It will be a one-and-a-half-hour blue summer.’

Titus breathes out. In a sense, it is a relief to hear that Eddie had a rotten childhood. It means that he won’t have time to think about The Best Book in the World. I hope he’ll dig really deep into the shit, Titus thinks maliciously. After the light comes darkness. Eddie is on his way into a tunnel. Hope it will be long and narrow. Now I am the one who sees the light!

But, in that case, who the hell has borrowed all the books? Is there another rival? Or is it all just another figment of his imagination?

Titus realises that he has gone down the wrong track. It is ridiculous to try to follow other people’s recipes to create a bestseller. He could read all the bestselling books in the world without being able to find a pattern. No, he must find The Best Book in the World within himself.

Now he is the little boy at the woman’s bosom again. He licks away his milk moustache and waves goodbye to Eddie and his crazy dad.

Quick recap. What has he got?

He has an overweight and charismatic detective chief inspector who has cracked an important slimming code and will soon change the world’s view of leadership. On top of that, he has a polished serial killer, a frightfully tasty pizza and the best artist in the world throughout the ages, his soul mate Salvador Dali. Plus lots of good ideas and a synopsis that will soon overflow from his brain. Wonderful.

Time to go to work.