The Best Book in the World

CHAPTER 27

The Evening Breeze Blows up


Titus 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; H?kan 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 Djurg?rden 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 Fj?derholm islands, a mini archipelago between Liding? 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 Djurg?rden. 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 Stavsn?s 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.


Titus starts by going through the bookshelves. A bookshelf tells you everything about a person, partly by showing you which books are in it but above all by how they are arranged. The books in the collection don’t actually tell you what the book-owner has really read – the selection is more about the picture the person wants to present of himself. But the way they are ordered, you can’t hide that, it reveals everything. The people who have read the most start by arranging their books according to genre, with biographies and fiction in separate sections, likewise cookery books and photo books, and so on. The more genres, the greater the interest in literature, and after that of course there is strict alphabetical order according to the author’s surname in each category. The least literary person arranges his books according to size. It is dreadfully ugly and almost impossible to find anything. On the other hand, nobody ever takes a book out of that type of bookshelf. Some maniacs even try to arrange their books in colour groupings, but they are few. Eddie belongs to the first category, excluding the many books stacked in heaps due to shortage of space. But within every letter of the alphabet there is complete chaos: Dostoevsky comes before Dahlstr?m. Kosinski before Kafka. He is a combination of a structure fascist, someone who goes by size, and a common-or-garden nutter. Strange indeed, thinks Titus. He looks in J, where his own books ought to be, but there is just a big gap.

Titus finds the Jensen-books in a heap on the floor next to the desk. Oh my God! Some sort of espionage is clearly going on. He thumbs through the books but can’t find any notes or comments inside them. In fact the paper feels stiff, almost as if they haven’t been opened before. What sort of spy can’t be bothered to do proper research? Titus feels angry that Eddie hasn’t even read his books, despite having buttered him up and flattered him so many times.

Titus looks out of the window to check if anybody is watching him. There doesn’t seem to be. He turns the computer on and sits down on the desk chair waiting for the program to start up.

Ha! You don’t need a password to get in! He starts frantically to search among folders and files. The hard disk is mainly music, pictures and films. Titus bypasses these and soon finds a folder called ‘MANUSCRIPTS’. He opens it, and one of the sub-folders immediately catches his eye.

The hair on Titus’ arms stands up when he reads the name: The Best Book in the World.



Out on the Fj?derholm islands, calm has descended. The day-trippers who come with the ferry have long since gone home. The guests at the inn on the other side of the island are either in the restaurant or out on the jetty drinking whisky in peace and quiet. The taxi boats won’t be coming for another hour or two.

In the little bay where Come aboard amour is moored, it is calm too. The cockpit is empty and both the crew and the oil lamps have moved into the cabin. Eddie X and Astra are lying among the warm eiderdowns, flirting. A bit of kissing, and switching between nonsense and serious subjects of conversation. Eddie wants to know what it is like at Winchester’s. How do they look after their authors? What sort of contracts do they have? How much do the editors interfere with the texts? When it comes to Winchester’s, Astra is super-professional. She is a like a catalogue and only reveals carefully balanced information. She is more interested in how things are at Eddie’s publishing house, Babelfish. Does he think they market him properly? What would make him change to another publisher? What does he think of Winchester’s? Does he want her to arrange a meeting with Evita Winchester, completely informally?



Titus starts reverentially poking around in the folder called The Best Book in the World. There is a Word file called ‘synopsis’. He opens it and reads a short list of bullet points:

? The funniest T-shirt print in the world:

THE WOOD GROUSE IS THE BIGGEST HEN BIRD IN SWEDEN



? The best aphorism in the world:

IT IS JUST AS LIKELY THAT THE WORLD HAS BEEN MADE BY GOD AS THAT THE MOON IS MADE OF CHEESE

Is that it? Titus thinks about his own way of making a synopsis. He can easily fill an entire pad with handwritten notes before he even starts on the book. But this? What on earth is it? Either Eddie is trying to make a fool of him, or he has got writer’s block. Creative paralysis.

Slowly but surely a lofty calm spreads through Titus’ body. Perhaps Eddie quite simply isn’t capable of doing battle with him. He has obviously tried, but without success. Eddie has sat down and started to note the contents of the book and the only things he has been able to think up are a weird T-shirt print and an aphorism, albeit a fairly clever one. But that is hardly a sustainable start for a bestselling non-fictional novel of decisive importance that is going to change the world. Such an idiot! Titus shakes his head.

The next file is called Comeaboardamour_bestpoemintheworld. An expectant smile spreads across Titus’ face. Of course, he clicks that file to open it too.

Beloved Astra, come to my yacht

Work Eddie’s pump, give it a shot

Come aboard and share my berth

There’s lots of room; plenty of girth

Dearie me, did the wave splash you?

Take off your shirt before you’re wet through

We have man-rope, tackle and leather

The right equipment for all sorts of weather

The keel is long with anti-corrosive iron bolts

The varnish shines all shiny, the tiller bucks like a colt

Come hither and I’ll kiss your curvy railing

Serve you a full suit of sails and learn you some sailing

And when you finally ask me to fill your sails

I’ll gust from the south with all that entails

Let go the topsail, clew up, hold fast!

Sheet home my foresail and blow on my mast

We’ll sing a sea shanty, drink grog, make mirth

Make for the headland and tack up the firth!

Ship ahoy! Come into my berth!

Titus’s eyes are like saucers. What is this? Never in all his life has he seen such rubbish. Surely this couldn’t have been written by the brilliant romantic poet Eddie X? Titus reads it again and gets stuck on ‘The varnish shines all shiny, the tiller bucks like a colt…’ Shines all shiny? this must be the worst ever combination of a verb and an adverb, Titus says quietly to himself, and lets out a laugh.

He starts thinking. Either the poem is meant as a joke, or Eddie has lost his marbles. Or his ability to express himself with words, at any rate.

Suddenly, the meaning of the poem becomes clear to Titus.

Eddie is going to seduce Astra! Evidently, there are no limits to how far that man is prepared to go. His creativity has become completely blocked somehow. He has lost the ability to write and is becoming a desperado. Frustrated artists can become furious, as Titus is well aware. Who knows what mad plans Eddie has to regain control?

I must stop him, Titus thinks.

I must warn Astra!



Out by the Fj?derholm islands, Eddie is starting to become slightly drunk. He has drunk so much punch that his lips and mouth are sticky from all the sugar, and he has to tense his jaw muscles when he speaks so as not to slur his words. And like all tipsy boys he can’t manage to kiss and do the small talk for more than a short while. Suddenly he frees himself from the eiderdowns and opens his arms wide.

‘Come on, now, Astra. We’re going swimming!’

He opens the cabin hatch and jumps up into the cockpit. There, he hastily tears off all his clothes with sweeping gestures and sets off round the deck in a wild Indian dance. He stops on the foredeck in front of the mast, thrusts a little with his hips and swings his dick a few rounds in the air before diving down into the black and glistening water.

Astra is not quite as drunk as Eddie, but is just as exhilarated. When she comes up on deck and sees Eddie already in the water, she too undresses quick as a flash. She holds her nose and her bosom when she jumps into the water.

‘Lovely, isn’t it?’ Eddie shouts, and with a toss of his head clears his long fringe from his eyes. He swims a few metres in the bay and waves to Astra to follow. She swims after him. They stop and tread water a while without talking, just looking at each other.

‘This is heavenly! How can it still be so warm in the water?’

‘I love August! Look over there towards Liding?, Astra. Can you see?’

‘What?’

‘Look at the water! Look how it’s shining all shiny! I love it when it shines all shiny!’

‘Yes, it is beautiful when it shines all shiny. I like it.’



‘Hello, you have reached Astra Larsson at Winchester Publishing. Leave your name and your telephone number, and I shall phone you as soon as I can. Thanks for the call.’

Damn, damn, damn! Titus shakes his mobile phone in the air as if it were to blame for Astra not answering. What the hell should I do now? Phone her again and leave a message? Text her?

And in that case, what would he say? In the long run it is usually best to tell the truth. At the same time, he knows that Astra has fallen for Eddie. It would be hard to convince her over the phone that Eddie is a maniac. It would only rebound on Titus himself. He would look like a jealous nutter with a conspiracy theory. So what should he do? He must act, otherwise Astra might be tricked into something unpleasant. And, most important of all, Eddie might ferret out lots of secrets about The Best Book in the World.

Titus comes to the conclusion that a white lie is the only proper solution at this stage. Whitish, at least. Off-white, he thinks, and sends off a text message.


Then he simply turns off his phone.

Time will tell, he thinks.



The night bathers are back in the cabin. The swim and the charged atmosphere have already done for a large part of the alcohol. Astra and Eddie sit wrapped up in each other’s towels and eiderdowns, kissing for all they are worth. They caress each other’s hair. Their emotions are on fire. The oil lamps flicker sensually in time with their wide-open mouths. The dampness has started to leave their bodies and now settle as a mist on the small windows. They aaaah and ummmm as they kiss each other, sometimes with closed eyes that allow their hands to discover new wonders, sometimes with wide-open eyes that ladle in even larger portions of pleasure. Their legs are entwined. The towels and covers fall off. There is a great deal that is shining all shiny on the boat just now.

Suddenly, the text alert on Astra’s telephone cuts like a machete right through the cabin. Robot-like, she stretches out for the telephone and opens the message before she has time to think – a message from the outer world can destroy a sexy moment easy as pie. But Astra isn’t thinking clearly, it is her muscles and nerves that decide. Her eyes and hands leave Eddie’s body and concentrate on the telephone display. Answering the phone is evidently a reflex that has a higher position in Astra’s needs-pyramid than the impulse to mate with the best man in the flock.

RELAPSE. HELP ME. NOW. TITUS.

‘Oh no, what the hell…’ whispers Astra.

Not many seconds pass before the erotic atmosphere leaves the cabin. Astra’s pupils whirl around in her eyes, as if trying to help her brain find something to cling on to.

Eddie sits up a little and pulls the covers over his navel.

‘What’s happening?’

‘I don’t know. Something has happened to Titus. He seems to have gone on a binge again. He wants help.’

‘Oh dear. Has he tried to become sober? I thought he personified the everlasting party,’ says Eddie quietly, caressing Astra’s arm.

Astra mutters some curses to herself and tries to phone Titus. But he has turned his phone off, and he hasn’t got an answerphone function turned on either. All she can hear is the telephone company’s automatic message which speaks in staccato.

‘I must go home,’ says Astra and looks desperate.

‘Really? Are you sure?’

‘I must. Anything at all could have happened. Can we do that, can we go home now?’

‘Yes, of course. I’ll start the engine and we’ll be back in the harbour in fifteen, twenty minutes.’

‘Great,’ says Astra with a slightly sad smile. ‘Eddie, this is just crazy. I really don’t want to break off this evening. You have been absolutely fantastic. You are absolutely fantastic. You make me horny as hell, and I think that I am actually a little in love with you. Really, really magical, all of it. I’m terribly sorry.’

‘It’s all right, Astra. Nobody can destroy what we two have here. Now let’s be on our way. We must save Titus Jensen for posterity.’

Eddie gets dressed quickly and starts doing things with the boat so that they can sail home. He connects the petrol hose to the outboard motor, squeezes the petrol pump a few times, pulls out the choke and starts the engine at the first pull. It chugs quietly while he loosens the mooring ropes and pulls the boat out with the anchor rope. Astra untangles the mess of sheets and towels, and tidies the bunk which fills half the cabin. She curses Titus for being so hopelessly immature. Who knows when she’ll get to see this lovely bunk again?

Eddie hangs up an oil lamp in the mast as a lantern. The old Neptun cruiser chugs slowly back to its home harbour through the calm waters. A few other boats can be seen here and there. The evening is not over yet. The summer is not over yet. The sky above Stockholm is lit up by street lights, flats and lots of lively pubs and restaurants.

Eddie holds the tiller with his right hand, putting his other arm around Astra’s shoulders when she comes and sits beside him.

‘Has he tried to be sober for a long time?’ he wonders.

‘Yes, indeed. He has been totally dry since the beginning of summer. He has even stopped smoking.’

‘Oh, goodness…’

‘The thing is, he is working on a new book. Or rather, it is almost finished. I think it is going to be really, really good, but not if he starts boozing again. That would be the end of it. Evita’s going to be absolutely livid.’

‘Wow, have you been able to read any of it then? What’s it about?’ Eddie wonders.

Astra looks at Eddie, somewhat surprised. What does the plot of the book matter at this point? Eddie looks away.

‘I mean, I wonder how he’s feeling? I wonder what’s happened.’

‘I just don’t get it. I thought he was in good balance. He looked young and fit didn’t he? You saw him at my place earlier today.’

Eddie’s eyebrows rise a centimetre or two. Now he looks genuinely curious.

‘Young and fit? Well, actually I don’t think he did. I thought he looked a bit tipsy. I think he had probably already had a shot or two.’

‘I don’t know about that. No, something must have happened this evening.’

As they approach the harbour, Astra phones and orders a taxi. Eddie asks if she wants him to accompany her. She doesn’t. Or rather, she does, but she knows that Eddie makes Titus nervous. He has nagged her so much not to talk about what he is busy with, and especially not to Eddie X. No, regrettably she must track down Titus on her own.

Something is happening to Eddie. His mouth looks like a line. His eyes are smarting. He grips the tiller so hard that his knuckles turn white.



Titus looks at his watch. It’s well after midnight. He realises that the sailors could be back in the city any time but that he has no idea if his text has actually been received or if Astra has even seen it. It was a bit of a shot in the dark, and now he really has no idea which strategy he should follow.

He sneaks out of Eddie’s house and starts walking home quickly. He must air his brain, think and try to sort out his alternatives.

Option one. He hits the bottle quick as hell and hopes that Astra forgives him for this one and only escapade. He’ll grovel at her feet, petition for mercy and hope she will still have faith in him. At the same time he will warn Astra about Eddie. But why should she believe him? And what should he claim to be the danger from Eddie? No, he can’t hit the bottle to save himself. That would risk everything. Better to be obsessed than dependent. Forget it. Not a good alternative.

Option two. He tells it like it is. That his paranoia drove him to break into Eddie’s house and that he had searched his computer and now considered he could prove that a historic theft of ideas is under way, and that Eddie is intending to carry out a pretentious seduction of Astra with the help of horrible sailing metaphors. No, that isn’t going to work; he cannot reveal to a single living soul that he, Titus Jensen, has deliberately broken into the home of one of the most popular figures in the country. Christ, no. He drops that idea too.

Option three. He can resort to yet another white lie and concoct a half-truth. He can say that he sent his ‘relapse’ text purely to arouse Astra’s attention. That much is true. And then he can say that he happened to meet Eddie’s mate Lenny in town, and that according to him Eddie has boasted about how easy it would be to get Astra into bed, that she has completely fallen for him and now all Eddie has to do is to bait the hook. Titus can say that he does of course know that Astra is fully capable of looking after herself, but that she nevertheless must be informed as to the rules of Eddie’s dirty game. If Eddie only sees Astra as a trophy, then she must be appraised of the fact. It is his obligation as a friend to tell the bitter truth. He apologises for his abrupt text message but felt that something special was required to gain her attention. Titus realises deep inside that a teenage-like seduction boast doesn’t fit in very well with Eddie’s character, but he also feels that he doesn’t have the time or the ability to find other ways out of his dilemma. He has to give it a try, and it is at any rate not a completely rotten strategy. With a bit of luck it might just hit home. Or rather, it simply must work.

He is soon home again. He turns his phone on and waits for Astra to ring. Because she is going to, isn’t she? Surely?

When Astra climbs into the taxi, she is rather bewildered by all the emotions rushing around inside her. She has had a wonderful evening with Eddie: wild sailing, romantic dinner, intimate conversation, night swimming and kissing in the nude – all within the course of a few hours. What a pace! They are probably beginning to fall in love with each other, she thinks, and smiles to herself. She would never have thought that she would fall for a guy with extra-large coloured silk shirts. She is usually waylaid by blokes with expensive suits and smart hairstyles. Astra has no idea which women Eddie has had, but she doesn’t think they usually have an electronic calendar and ten-thousand-kronor shoes in their hall. But evidently opposites attract each other; the greater the charge at the ends, the greater the magnetism.

She tries to phone Titus again. Perhaps he has turned his phone on now.



Titus is sitting at the kitchen table staring at his mobile phone, and answers immediately when it rings:

‘Hi Astra. Where are you?’

‘I’m sitting in a taxi. But where are you? What’s happened?’

‘I’m at home. Can you come over?’ he says in a serious but short tone.

‘Sure. Are you all right?’

‘We can talk more when you’re here.’



Titus doesn’t even notice that Astra has no make-up and that her hair has that after-sex look. As soon as she comes in, he takes her hand and leads her to the computer. He bends down and puts the tube into his mouth. The breathalyser-lock approves his breath and the computer welcomes him to a new work session. He spreads his hands.

‘There, you see? I’m sober.’

‘Yes, I see that. I’m very pleased, I must say. What the hell are you playing at, really?’

Titus looks seriously at Astra and says that he’ll tell her everything.

And he does.

He tells her why he was forced to send her a false text message. How and why he came across Lenny. That Lenny was sloshed and blurted out everything Eddie had said about how he was going to mount Astra. How Lenny laughed and was twitching and jerking at the same time as he was obviously deeply impressed by Eddie’s ability to seduce women. How he imitated Eddie’s obscene gestures with which described that the final conquest would take place on all fours. That Titus hadn’t really believed Lenny, but that Lenny could even quote from a poem Eddie had written about Astra. Some rubbish about something that ‘shines all shiny’ and how he would shag her on his boat Come aboard amour. And that Eddie had said to Lenny that as soon as he had Astra on the hook then he would start pumping her for information about Titus’ new book.

That last bit wasn’t really planned. It just sort of slipped out.

Titus becomes silent and realises he can’t just keep on gabbling non-stop. He must give Astra a chance to digest it all.

The strategy has worked. He can see that from her long face. He isn’t proud of himself, but he does feel that what he has saved is of considerable value.

‘I didn’t know what to do! All I knew was that you were on a sailing date with Eddie. And I know Eddie, he can twist anybody round his little finger. I just had to do something. Do you understand?’

Astra stares at Titus. The words from Titus’ outburst whirl around inside her head, but don’t form any proper meaning. Shines all shiny… shines all shiny… shines all shiny… the words create a little whirlpool in her brain like water draining from a bathtub. At first you hardly notice anything, there is just a little trace of movement on the surface. But soon the laws of gravity and the forces of nature get the upper hand. The whirlpool makes demands, and it takes with it everything it can see on its increasingly wild clockwise journey. It can even suck a big toe into the drain.

In Astra’s head, the shines-all-shiny whirlpool whizzes around faster and faster. It soon sucks down common sense, which until now has managed to swim calmly and sensibly on the surface. Perspective and discernment join the roundabout too. ‘Shines all shiny’ grows into a maelstrom. She recognises that expression all too well: they are Eddie’s words, no doubt about it. She feels disgusted, partly by the idea that Eddie had planned his romantic attack upon her. Can it really be true? She is also disgusted to have been a subject of discussion between two cultural misfits at a pub as if she were just some damned plaything. She has no wish whatsoever to be the focus of their conversation. Why is she sitting here in the middle of the night in the flat of a nutty has-been who not only interferes in her life but also thinks he is capable of writing a book that can top the bestseller lists in several different categories? How did she get sucked into this swamp? This is crazy, why couldn’t she have an ordinary job instead? Lawyer, accountant, bank director, any bloody job at all?

But no way is she ever going to descend to Titus’ Neanderthal level and start crying or talking it out with him. Never ever. Coolness and professionalism, these are the only things that work with these decrepit old men.

‘I don’t know what to say, Titus. This is just too much. You make me so tired.’

‘I know, Astra. I’m sorry that it turned out like this. At first I didn’t know what I should do. But I was forced to tell you the truth.’

Astra inhales a slow breath through her nose and exhales it the same way. Then she gets up and leaves Titus.

She feels like she has gone down the plughole herself.