The Best Book in the World

CHAPTER 30

Theatre at the Theatre


In Stockholm in the beginning of September you can’t be sure of anything. Is it summer or autumn? Are people happy after their holidays and life-sustaining activities? Or are they already beginning to become depressed, faced as they are with eight months of darkness? If they have let themselves go over the top with summer delights, they can lose their minds in the winter when the dreary contrast casts its shadow on their senses. And if they have completely shut out the summer, their bodies might have been exposed to too little sunlight and the consequent vitamin D shortage will knock them straight into an autumn and winter depression instead.

In Sweden it is a question of balancing your feelings and spreading them out over the year: not too much and not too little. The Swedes have a special word for this – lagom. They pride themselves on this word being totally Swedish, and claim that it doesn’t exist in any other language. In Sweden you need to be lagom. A Swede rations his or her experiences. Only somebody who is lagom can keep their cool.

But in recent years Sweden has started to lose its footing. Lagom is getting a bit wobbly. Lagom has sprung a leak. Swedes are beginning to lose their minds.

It began back in the 1950s and 1960s with American cultural hegemony: a magnificent flood of sitcoms with canned laughter. Historians will come to see that it was Lucille Ball and her The Lucy Show that disturbed the equilibrium for all time. A red-haired dame in black-and-white TV, with conical breasts and a crazy laugh – it was simply hilarious, yet still attractive and human in some way. In and out through doors, up and down stairs. What was this? And why was it funny? How could the meek Swedes ever be the same again after this experience?

Then came the immigrants with their weird spicy food and hot feelings, which they liked to serve with joyful voices and wild gestures. They started to call each other and the Swedes ‘pal’, ignoring the fact that it actually takes a lifetime to acquire a friend in Sweden. And as if to really bowl these lagom-Swedes over, they started to mix all cultures any old how, their own as well as that of the Swedes: kebab on pizza, cinnamon in coffee, sprinkles on strawberries!

Other cultural imports that have created sensory distortion are Poetry Slam and Spoken Word. They are stage actors, poets, authors and stand-up comedians who in various ways perform on stage so that their texts will reach the public. There are no rules. The one who reaches them best, wins the public’s hearts. You can be funny, sincere, political, ironic, in fact anything at all that arouses emotions and makes the public feel they are an important part of a large, loud and weird world.

Summer meets autumn. Euphoria meets depression. The calendar has reached 6 September. This evening is the Spoken Word Festival, a party evening for brilliant texts. Not quite so geared to hysterical laughter as stand-up comedy, but just as memorable and entertaining. The best talents in the country are gathered here, and even the odd legend from abroad has been invited to join them.

When Titus Jensen gets to S?dra Teatern, Stockholm’s alternative crowd has already started to meet up in the square outside the theatre. They hug one another and laugh. Hair in all colours of the rainbow, tattoos and piercings, funny clothes, new clothes, ragged clothes. Emotions and life. Nothing lagom as far as the eye can see.

Titus, however, is not especially colourful when he stumbles on the steps to the entrance. The black-clad figure with his shaved head is obliged to make use of the railing to ascend, a sight that is all too familiar. The pathetic Author with a capital A has come to provide entertainment for the people. And he looks just as sloshed as usual.

Not everybody thinks Titus Jensen is pathetic. Halfway up the steps he is stopped by an enthusiastic young couple. Both of them just as black-clad as Titus. They are bobbing up and down as they stand and both talking at the same time.

‘Oh, Titus, can we have your autograph? We love you. We got together when you read Manual for Housewives at the Peace & Love Festival last year. Like, without you we’d never have become a couple. You gave us love. Do you get it? You are the greatest!’

Titus stares at them. This has never happened before. Nobody has ever, in all of his career, expressed their love or admiration in such an unrestrained and direct manner. He takes the felt-tip pen and writes his name on their arms. The blood rushes to his cheeks and he feels the blush spread. A weird sensation. Somebody likes him. Indeed, two people like him. The couple bounce along further up the steps and Titus follows them with his gaze for a moment before moving on.

Inside the foyer, the marble floor makes the background buzz especially loudly. The intense theatre atmosphere is so strong you almost think you can hear a chamber orchestra tuning its instruments despite the fact that many a year has passed since there was an orchestra pit at S?dra Teatern.

On the left, some young wardrobe attendants are leaning over the counter with nothing to do. It is still too warm for overcoats. Besides, wardrobe fees are not included in the budget for today’s young public. Instead, they slowly pour in through the doors to the right, up the staircase and towards the bar. No active cultural experience without stimulants. Titus follows along with the flow and wonders if he too will have time for something before his entrance. For the last few days, the very thought of performing has made him feel uncomfortable, even though his performance doesn’t necessitate a single minute’s preparation. He only has to be himself, to treat them to himself, he has tried to convince himself. As Eddie X sometimes shouts out when he introduces him on the stage: ‘Everybody has a bit of him in themselves. Yet there is only one Titus Jensen – and that is TITUS JENSEN!’

But nevertheless, today it doesn’t feel as simple as it usually does. Something important is absent.

When Titus gets to the top of the stairs and is about to enter the bar, somebody puts a hand on his shoulder. A strict voice:

‘Ticket please!’

Titus whirls round.

A big smile. Brilliant white teeth, velvet-brown eyes that can melt glaciers.

‘Nice to see you, Eddie,’ says Titus with a slight nod of his head.

‘You are late,’ says Eddie and puts his whole arm round Titus’ shoulders, giving him a half-hug. ‘It doesn’t matter. Come on in, we’ve time for a beer in the green room before we get started. Great to see you!’

Today Eddie X is wearing a knee-long batik tunic in various shades of purple. Down below, a pair of creased grey-black and rolled-up linen trousers stick out. On his feet, some shabby ox-blood coloured Dr Marten boots without laces. His dead straight Indian hair with orange and blue streaks is twisted into an erect ponytail. At the very top, his hair bushes out like a fountain above his head. There is something elevated about Eddie when he glides through the premises. He greets the public and shakes hands with a lot of them. Now and then he puts his left hand over the handshake as if to seal a lifelong contract of mutual love and fidelity.

It could be a magical evening.



Being drunk can be exhausting. But pretending to be drunk is even more of a drain on one’s resources.

Nervousness, abstinence and anxiety are riding Titus Jensen. At the moment he has the main role in the stage play of his life. Every single nerve is at maximum tension and at the same time that he is sweating profusely he must smother yawn after yawn. It is as if his body is screaming at him to fill up with oxygen. Everything to retain control of the situation.

He hasn’t got much more work left on his masterpiece and no way is he going to allow Eddie X to destroy anything. Eddie can go on thinking that Titus is a boozy has-been, but when the book is published, that love evangelist will be crushed once and for all. He will be crumbled into bits. The future belongs to Titus Jensen and The Best Book in the World.

In the green room Lenny is sitting and swigging a beer. He has thrown up one leg over the arm of his armchair and his foot bobs up and down in time with his shoulders which twitch now and then. He is all charged today; he is going to accompany Eddie’s text-reading with an amplified contrabass. Just him, Eddie X and a large stage. Today there won’t be any of the big band twitches from The Tourettes.

When Titus comes into the room he immediately falls onto the sofa inside the door. His panic increases. Now there are two people to act drunk in front of.

‘C-c-cock in your ear!’ Eddie yells when he catches sight of Titus.

‘Hi Lenny. Hell, great to see you,’ says Titus, slurring his words in an attempt to sound like his usual half-sloshed worse self.

Lenny gets a bottle out a little fridge and stretches across to Titus.

‘You seem to be fairly sozzled already. H-h-here. Drink this f*cker too. Amaze the world!’

Titus takes the little bottle and holds it to his nose. Vodka. Of all the spirits in the world, vodka is the easiest to drink. He feels the craving grow inside him, and he knows that he could drink the whole bottle in less than thirty seconds. He knows exactly what it feels like when the first calm spreads through his body purely from the knowledge of having access to alcohol, long before it reaches his bloodstream.


But it is better to be obsessed than dependent. When the human driving forces do battle, it is not always the strongest one that wins. You can use your brain too, and let cleverness win on points. Despite the proximity of the vodka, Titus feels totally relaxed when he conjures forth his reward image. The young boy with his life before him, lying on a woman’s bosom, breathing in time with her. Out and in. Out and in. Moustache wet with fat milk. Lick it off. Become calm. Cognitive self-help. Vodka came, vodka went away. Hello and goodbye. He is going to get through this. Again. He can do it. He is good.

‘Are you all geared up, Titus?’ Lenny wonders. ‘Has Eddie told you what you’re going to read?’

‘No, I never do that in advance,’ says Eddie, and flashes a smile via the mirror at Lenny and Titus. ‘It would spoil the magic. Wouldn’t it, Titus?’

‘Mmmm,’ mumbles Titus, who realises that he must lie low with the talk so as not to out himself as a newly fledged teetotaller.

He presses his thumb hard against the mouth of the bottle, leans back on the sofa into a recumbent position and puts the bottle to his lips. Then he turns his head in towards the sofa, holding the bottle between the cushion and the back of the sofa. He releases his thumb. The vodka runs out, gurgling, down into the innards of the sofa.

Then he adopts a half-sitting position with a ‘pah!’ and wipes his mouth on the arm of his jacket and puts the empty bottle down with a bang on the coffee table. He pushes a sofa cushion over the damp patch and says:

‘F-fanks, Renny… can I have a little snooze before it’s time?’

Titus doesn’t wait for an answer, but leans back with his eyes shut. He isn’t following any special plan, just acting on the spur of the moment. Parry. Act. Live life like it’s a pinball machine. He emits a short snore.

‘Hey, Titus! Have you fallen asleep? You can’t sleep now. Hey!’ says Lenny.

Titus doesn’t respond. Must play for time, reload. Soon they will expose him.

‘Titus? Are you there?’ Now it is Eddie who wants to know.

No answer. Heavy breathing.

‘He is beyond salvation,’ Eddie sighs. ‘It’s rather sad, isn’t it?’

‘It is f*cking crazy. He just zonked out. Must be totally sloshed.’

Eddis tears himself away from his mirror image and goes up to Titus. He gives him a gentle shake.

‘Titus…?’

No response.

‘TITUS!’

Eddie gets hold of Titus’ jacket lapel and pulls him up. Titus’ head hangs backwards. A little string of saliva runs out of his open mouth. His body is totally limp. All his strength goes into being out of reach.

The stakes are high, Titus knows that. But it is a case of make or break. Snore.

Eddie lets go of him. Leans over Titus’ ear and says in a calm and friendly tone:

‘Titus, I’ll come and wake you five minutes before it’s time for your entrance. In about half an hour. It’s going to be fine. You’ll manage it.’

‘What the f*ck! Are we just going to let him lie here?’ is Lenny’s loud contribution as he pokes Titus in his side.

‘What choice do we have?’

‘Yeah, well we can phone a hospital and ask them to send an ambulance. The guy is unconscious, you can see that!’

‘Get a hold of yourself, damn you! So that they would send him to some f*cking rehab clinic, or what?’

What was that? Titus reacts in his pretend torpor. A new tone. Titus has never before heard Eddie raise his voice against anybody. What’s going on?

Titus hears that they leave him and move towards the door. It sounds as if they are pushing and shoving each other.

Titus decides to sneak a look and opens a minimal slit between his eyelids. He peeps out. What is happening?

Lenny stands by the door with his hand on the door knob. He is on his way out. Eddie is standing next to him. Legs apart, his arms crossed. Keeping the door closed with his foot. A tense situation.

‘I just thought…’ Lenny attempts.

‘Don’t f*cking think anything,’ Eddie hisses and pushes Lenny up against the door. ‘If you let me down then I’ll reveal the whole bloody mess. Then you are – in deep shit.’

‘Yeees… or no. I mean, of course I’ll do it for you. I’ll pump him. I promised I would.’

Eddie X has the underside of the lower part of his arm up against Lenny’s throat. He applies some pressure, hard and for a long time. His arm is trembling with rage. The knuckles on his clenched fist have gone all white. His jaw is tense. His upper lip twitches. A vein throbs on his forehead. Eddie is no longer handsome, just angry, extremely angry. With his teeth together, he hisses:

‘You’re going to help me see this project through. I have read more than half and it could just as well be my own words. It was f*cking well my idea from the very first. That bastard has nicked it all. We must do whatever is necessary, do you get that? Whatever the cost.’

Lenny looks frightened. His eyes wide open, he stares at Eddie and nods.

Titus stares too, with his millimetre eye, from the sofa.

The fury.

Romantic poets can evidently have many sides to them.



When Astra gets out of the taxi outside the theatre, the square is almost deserted. It is a few minutes past eight and the festival has already begun. She hurries up the stairs and goes to the box office. She’s lucky, there are still a few tickets left. The upper gallery, next to the spotlight ramp. Might be a bit hot there, but she can see and hear well. Only 190 kronor.

‘I’ll take it,’ says Astra, and pays.

The opening act is something of a highlight: Legendary jazz and groove poet Gil Scott-Heron is on stage. The man behind classics like Home Is Where The Hatred Is and Whitey On The Moon gets the adrenalin going in the magnificent theatre auditorium. He is the opening act and will also close the evening as the final act. In the 1960s and 1970s, he made a name for himself for his militant stance in the Afro-American liberation struggle. During his entire artistic career he has fought against injustice and discrimination by reading and singing revolutionary texts to funky background music. Lots of people regard Gil Scott-Heron as the father of hip hop, although he personally hates the way a large part of black music over the last twenty years has treated women in such a degrading manner. It is both sad and degrading that a people who have been the victims of apartheid can’t raise themselves above the standard of their oppressors.

When Astra takes her seat, the whole auditorium is already on the verge of meltdown. Gil Scott-Heron’s time machine has thrown the public back to 1970, a time when the revolution was raging. The old legend stands alone on the dark stage with only one spotlight right above him. He looks like a scarecrow: grey beard, grey jacket, black shirt, black leather cap. Everything is too large, too sack-like. Funky background music with bongo drums, lazy bass and indecent transverse flute. His head bent slightly forward towards the mike. You can’t see his eyes. A hoarse, feverish voice. One hand gripping the mike stand. His other clenched fist up in the air, out towards the auditorium. Black power.

Astra just manages to hear the final words. Gil-Scott Heron’s warm-up.

Whistling, cheers and foot stamping on the floor. The ovation seems to go on forever. Everybody loves what they have just experienced. Imagine, actually hearing The Revolution Will Not Be Televised live! Admittedly, more than thirty years after the event, but even so. This is the best revolutionary song in the world!

Tomorrow the audience will be back at their jobs earning the money to pay the interest on their mortgages for their expensive homes. But this evening they are all of them activists who can and want to change the world, and those who now and then hope there will be a revolution do at least have more fun than those who never hope for anything. Particularly when they do it together.

It is an enchanted evening.



After Gil Scott-Heron’s magical opening, a stable and decent programme follows. The themes spread wildly and the performances are about everything from freedom of expression to sex. Eddie X does a great job as MC and manages to get the wild programme to hang together in a neat and warming way. He also reads some of his own poems in the intervals. Love spreads. The audience are delighted in their seats.

Astra thinks about Titus and wonders how he will manage the evening. It ought to be time for his appearance soon. She knows how confused and irritable he has been the last few weeks. Can he really manage to be teetotal and to stand up in front of a whole theatre auditorium filled with people who demand to be entertained? As long as they don’t do that gimmick with the luggage trolley. Please, please, no trolley!

Now Eddie X returns yet again to the stage, his arms opened wide towards the public. He walks slowly up to the microphone and smiles.

‘Dear audience! With us this evening we have a Swedish classic, as angry as Strindberg and as black as Norén. Yes, now, of course, you understand to whom I am referring. Perhaps you have already seen him read something from our unknown literary treasure trove earlier. Perhaps you have only heard about these celebrated literary occasions. Whatever, here he is – the full-blood writer, half pain, half blackness! My friends, please give a warm welcome to – Titus Jensen!’

Then a flashing stroboscope light starts up. The bass beat from White Stripes’ Seven Nation Army booms out of the loudspeakers. Eddie looks as if he is jerking in the flashing white light although he is standing completely still.


From off-stage Lenny comes in wheeling a black-clad Titus standing on a yellow baggage trolley. He does a few laps of the stage to audience applause and laughter. A lot of people know what to expect. As Titus is brought up to the front of the stage and the microphone the music goes quiet and the usual spotlights replace the flashing lights. When Lenny stands the trolley up and tips off his load, Titus takes a couple of unsteady steps out on to the stage floor. He screws up his eyes against the light, holding his hand like a peaked cap to shade them. He sways slightly, his mouth open and slack, drunk as a lord and high as a pylon. He is embarrassing and hair-raising at same time. Is he going to pull this off? Giggles and laughter in the audience.

Astra puts a hand on her brow and squirms in an effort to shake off the repugnance she feels. This is just crazy, she thinks. How can people find this funny? Bloody parasites.

And what should she do now? If Titus has broken his promise of temperance then the book project is a write-off, that much is obvious. The manuscript will never be ready in time and Evita will cut off the funding the second she hears what has happened. Damn and blast, and after she had invested so much time in that blithering idiot.

Eddie rests his arm on Titus’ shoulders. He looks at the audience but speaks to Titus.

‘Hello, Titus.’

‘Hello.’

‘Nice to see you here!’

‘Mmmm.’

‘And now you are going to read for us?’

‘Thank you.’

‘What are you going to read?’

‘Don’t know.’

‘Is it in Swedish, do you think?’

‘Don’t know.’

‘Is it something good, do you think?’

‘Don’t know.’

‘Do you want to know what we have chosen for you?’

‘Okay.’

‘We have chosen a fantastic book from the literary treasure trove, a rarity we found earlier today at an antiquarian bookseller’s just near here. The book is called What a Young Husband Ought to Know. It was written by the American moral preacher and doctor of theology Sylvanus Stall about one hundred years ago and was translated into Swedish in 1930. Take it away, Titus!’

Eddie X puts a fancy little volume with a half-calf binding into Titus’ hand, and backs off the stage. Titus remains standing alone together with the motionless microphone stand. There is an expectant silence in the auditorium.

Titus opens the book and looks at some random pages.

‘Oh goodness, what tiiiiny print! Were people smaller in the old days?’

Laughter immediately. The audience has decided: this is going to be fun.

Titus digs out a pair of reading spectacles from his pocket and places them on the tip of his nose. He clears his throat and starts to read like an old Sunday school teacher in a 1930s film.

‘Chapter Nine: about your future bride! “It is necessary now to call the attention of young husbands to the fact that in women there exists less sexual desire and satisfaction than in man. Perhaps of the great majority of women it would be true to say that they are largely devoid of sexual pleasure.”’

Titus exaggerates the ‘e’ in all words containing the syllable ‘sex’, making the words even more ridiculous than they already are. Seeeexual desire and seeeexual pleasure. This attracts howls of laughter from the audience.

Astra doesn’t laugh. She sits there with her arms tightly would around her chest, as if in a straitjacket. She thinks that what she is seeing is quite simply the worst sort of humour, based on people’s disabilities.

‘“In regard to the seeeexual intensity of the seeexual instinct, women might with some accuracy be divided into three classes. The first class, which includes the larger number, is generally supposed to be quite devoid of seeexual inclination and feeling. The second class is composed of women who find in the marital relation a moderate and nooormal pleasure when they are in health, and if indulged in at times which are agreeable to them, and at suitable intervals.”’

Titus is now up and running, Astra can see that. And the audience is with him. They laugh every time Titus pronounces something in a particularly funny or emphatic way. He stands erect and does actually manage to express a little human pride, despite everything. That’s something at least, Astra thinks.

After a short pause for effect, he holds the book theatrically at an arm’s distance and continues to read in a clear and distinct voice:

‘And, my friends: “The third class represents the few in whom seeexuality presides as a ruling passion. This class is by no means as numerous as some might imagine and such women should never be married except to men of good health, strong physique, large powers of endurance, and with a pronounced seeexual inclination.”’

Titus gives an exaggerated bow and gains applause. He turns the pages to a new passage in the book. Now he has really got up steam. He stands, legs apart, and glows with self-confidence. Astra relaxes a little. This is actually slightly amusing. Bloody stupid, but amusing.

‘“Chapter Four: Essentials in husband and home. If your wife is to have a fair chance for a pleasant home and a happy and useful life, she will need a husband who can sacrifice his personal luxuries and self-indulgences in order that he may share with her and the family the comforts and blessings of their home – a man who will scorn the saloon, avoid the club, remain away from the lodge, give up his cigar, and spend his time and his money for the comfort and happiness of his family.”’

Even Titus laughs while reading. He never usually does that. Astra starts to think that Titus’ eyes are shining in an extremely alert manner. Is he really sloshed? He doesn’t look particularly intoxicated any more.

Titus turns the pages again and sticks his finger in at random.

‘“Do not stimulate impure thinking by theatre-going, the reading of salacious books, participation in the round dance, the presence of nude statuary and suggestive pictures; avoid such bodily exposure and postures as mar the modesty of both man and woman. Marital moderation is most easily secured and maintained where married persons occupy separate beds; and, indeed, in many instances such conditions exist as render separate rooms not only desirable, but essential. Mr E.B. Duffey says: ‘If the husband cannot properly control his amorous propensities they had better by all means occupy separate beds and different apartments, with a lock on the communicating door, the key in the wife’s possession.””

Yet again, time for a brief rhetorical pause. Titus looks out over the auditorium with a broad smile. Astra thinks that he seems to be enjoying himself. The audience is also in good form; they belong to a laid-back generation that can laugh at historic stupidities instead of being shocked.

A young black-clad couple on the front row have stood up holding hands and are reaching out their hands towards Titus. Some sort of message is written along their arms. They are jumping, dancing and look as if they love Titus more than anyone else on the planet. To think that Titus can arouse such emotions! That is something new.

His gaze searches up over the balconies, right up to the gallery where Astra is sitting. She gets the impression that he is looking for her, and they make eye contact, Astra is almost certain of that. What was that, did he see her, did he give a wink? Titus’ gaze wanders further over the audience as if he is searching for somebody. But surely that was a wink? At least it was some sort of signal.

Titus reads some more short passages from the past ages of the moral preacher, before suddenly shouting:

‘Now listen, here comes the last verse from our very own doctor of theology, Sylvanus Stall. Are you with me?’

The audience stands up, their hands in the air with fingers pointing towards the ceiling, stamping the floor. Titus Jensen is king.

‘“Seeeexual excess is one of the most destructive forms of intemperance, degrading alike the body, mind and morals.” So think about that, girls and boys – go home and f*ck each other this evening! Have a nice time! Thank you for listening to me, my name is Titus Jensen. Today and for ever and ever!’

Shouts of laughter and applause. This was one of the highlights of the evening, most of the audience agrees about that. Even Astra thinks that Titus made a good job of it. Perhaps these spontaneous readings are not quite as degrading when you get down to it; the public is laughing just as much at the ridiculous texts as they are at Titus. But of course it is pathetic that nobody cares about his own texts. Why can’t they pass muster for a festival like this? They are just as good as most of what she has heard this evening, that’s for sure. She decides to seek out Titus when the programme is finished. It is time to normalise their relationship again and besides, she must find out whether he really has broken his temperance vows.



After the festival, several of the performers and a large part of the audience hang around in the upper foyer and in the vicinity of the bar in the middle of the room. Since the weather is so nice and the evening warm, the enormous terrace outside is open, too.

Eddie X is holding court around a table in one corner of the terrace. He has had a good evening even though the energy drained away somewhat after Titus’ climax. Eddie’s interval act simply didn’t strike home like it usually did.

Various refreshments are available on a large tray in the middle of the table. Titus has managed to fill his glass with something that looks like a large gin and tonic with lemon – without adding a single drop of gin. He bellows in time with his fellow revellers. His nervousness has gone and now it is as easy as pie to act drunk. He is sitting next to Lenny who is comparatively relaxed and doesn’t have to shout out expletives all the time. Lenny is fairly drunk too, but for real. He twitches and stutters much less than usual, almost as though alcohol alleviates Tourette’s, Titus thinks.


‘F…f*cking hell, you were really great,’ Lenny yells. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen you read so bloody well.’

‘Fanks, it was blooody fun,’ says Titus, slurring his words.

‘F*ck, Titus. You are almost a popular hero now, after all your readings. Aren’t you going to write a new book now, so you can cash in on your popularity?’

‘Yeah, purrhaps, purrhaps…’

‘What, are you working on something new?’

‘You never know…’ says Titus, and tries to avoid going into the subject.

‘What is it? What are you writing now? Tell me!’

‘Well it isn’t anything. I’m not working on anything special.’

‘Ah, come off it, pull the other one!’ Lenny counters. ‘We have hardly seen you all summer. You must have something in the works. What is your book about?’

‘One thing and another. Nothing special. Let’s talk about something else.’

‘Oh no, that’s interesting. What are you writing about? I want to know.’

Titus wonders why Lenny is suddenly so overly interested in his writing. What plans are he and Eddie cooking up? Are they going to try to steal his ideas? The conspiracy theories wash over him again. But who would believe him? He needs concrete evidence before he goes to Astra and Evita and tells them that Eddie X and the Babelfish publishing house are going to produce their own genre-transcending book. Or should he go directly to the police? He is not sure if they care about immaterial theft. Just think how the MP3 pirates knocked out the entire record industry without the police so much as lifting a finger to help them. He looks quickly across the table to see what Eddie is busy with.

Eddie is sitting with his legs wide apart on his chair and with his arms behind his head. He’s talking to Astra, who is standing next to him on high heels with her expensive handbag in a firm grip. Cautious, not to say suspicious. She looks extremely attractive this evening, a summery tan and with heavy black eyeshadow. Dressed for business, but with rather too many undone buttons on her blouse to suit a dusty meeting at the office.

Astra! Is she here? Then she must be convinced I’m drunk and have broken the contract, Titus thinks. In a slurring voice, he mutters something to Lenny about coming back and then rushes up to Astra.

‘Astra! Astra, I must talk to you!’

‘Nice to see you too,’ says Astra and gives Titus the most tired of looks. She really wants to keep a certain distance from him, otherwise he will completely devour her with his manic behaviour. But she follows along when Titus pulls her over to an empty part of the terrace.

‘Astra, listen to me now. I am one hundred per cent sober. I’m just pretending to be drunk so that they won’t know I’m alert and writing again.’

Astra gives a laugh.

‘Pretending to be drunk!? Come off it, are you twelve years old or what? Get a grip, Titus.’

‘I promise. Have a sniff.’

He leans over her face and breathes out for all he is worth over her nose. She gives a start. It doesn’t smell particularly nice. But sloshed? No, it doesn’t actually smell like that.

‘Why are you behaving like this?’ Astra pushes Titus’ face away from her.

‘I must. They can’t be allowed to find out anything.’

‘Who can’t? What are you talking about?’

‘Eddie. And Lenny too, I think. I’m not sure. Something is going on there. They keep on pumping me about the book. They know something. And Eddie is not at all who you think he is. He is dangerous. Beware of him.’

‘But…’

She doesn’t have time to find out what Titus is babbling about. The velvet-eyed Eddie X has suddenly sneaked up behind her and put his arm around her waist. A feeling like a minor electric shock goes through her body and she remembers the moments among the eiderdowns on board the yacht. Life is complicated, nobody can say otherwise.

‘Having a conference?’ says Eddie and gives her a warm smile.

‘Mmmm,’ mutters Titus, who returns to his strategy of rationing his words.

‘I didn’t have a chance to ask you what you thought about the evening, Astra?’

‘A success, Eddie. Really. Well done,’ says Astra in a cautious tone.

‘Thanks. Come and sit with us. There’s some food coming in soon. Or, rather, “out”. There’s some food coming out soon,’ says Eddie, and indicates the open night sky above them. ‘I have longed to see you, Astra. I’d like to talk to you.’

He puts his hand on her arm, stroking it softly.

Astra thaws a little more and agrees. A lot of things need to be sorted out. Even though she has buried herself in work the last few weeks, she hasn’t been able to forget what actually happened. Who has said what and to whom? Has Eddie really boasted to Lenny about how he would seduce her? Or was it Titus’ abstinence that created such figments of the imagination? She doesn’t doubt one second that Titus is unreliable. The very fact of calling Eddie ”dangerous”, for example. Ridiculous…

Once back at the table, Eddie devours Astra with his attention. They eat tapas, drink wine and chat together. Eddie is very interested in every detail of Astra’s life. She feels as if she is really being seen for who she is. Slowly but surely, Eddie builds up his credibility again. Eventually, Astra also gets the answer to her question.

‘Yes, it’s true that I told Lenny how much I love you. And you know how he is, as soon as you say something serious he gets all nervous and starts swearing and twitching. Makes dirty gestures. Exaggerates. He can’t do serious. If something becomes genuine and for real, he just wants to run away and talk drivel. I don’t know how he has dealt with what I shared with him. I can imagine that he has said that to Titus. Yeah, told him I had said that. But of course I haven’t.’

‘Why does he behave like that?’

‘I think it is from his childhood. His dad is a famous psychologist or psychiatrist or whatever it’s called. He could never really accept that his own child could have Tourette’s syndrome. I suppose he thought that he gave his son all the love and security he could. Yeah, he probably thought that Lenny shouldn’t have Tourette’s syndrome quite simply. But he does, whatever you say. Lenny’s dad didn’t even manage to alleviate the problem; I think that was what caused the problem.’

‘No, you could say that again. The problem is far from being alleviated,’ Astra cuts in. She has never really discovered what made Lenny tick. She thinks on the whole that he is weird and she has always found it hard to understand the greatness in the noisy music made by The Tourettes.

‘Lenny always felt that his dad didn’t take his situation seriously,’ Eddie goes on. ‘It was nearly always his patients that got all the attention. In the end, Lenny himself gave up trying to combat his Tourette’s and started to accept his situation instead. Tourette’s came to be his best friend, you might say. He let it go into full bloom. He opened all the taps, just let it run freely. Tourette’s has made him what he is today. Today he is respected for the man he is. He wouldn’t be anything without his syndrome.’

‘And his dad? What happened to him?’

‘I don’t know. They don’t have any contact today, haven’t spoken to each other for many years. Perhaps the guy is even dead. Yeah, I think he probably is. I am convinced that Lenny doesn’t actually care.’

‘Sad.’

‘Perhaps, perhaps not. The important thing is that Lenny can be who he really is, don’t you think?’

They look across the table towards Lenny where he’s sitting with his tics and talking to Titus and some others. He gesticulates and yells, laughs and swears. He looks as if he is having a whale of a time.

Titus, however, looks tired and keeps sneaking looks at Astra and Eddie X. He tries to attract her attention with his gaze. He has been doing it for quite some time.

‘Pah, I can’t cope with his puppy dog eyes anymore!’ Astra says to Eddie. ‘He is always under my skin, it’s driving me crazy.’

Eddie looks at her, surprised.

‘I thought you loved Titus?’

Astra laughs.

‘Love? Haha, no I am just his publisher, not his mother. No thanks, I don’t want a whole load of emotions when I’m working.’

They sit in silence for a few moments. Astra doesn’t know which thread she should unravel to find a more amusing subject of conversation. Eddie puts his hand on hers, a gesture of joint understanding.

‘So you also think he has changed?’ he says in a low hiss, and sneaks a dark look at Titus.

Astra reacts to his sudden hissing. She doesn’t recognise that. She pulls her hand away.

‘Changed?’

‘Yeah, don’t you notice how everybody looks at him,’ Eddie goes on with growing anger in his voice. ‘He is a superhero this evening. Before, he was a clown when he did his readings. Now people love him. Did you see how the audience cheered him?’

‘But that’s good, isn’t it?’

Eddie snorts.

‘Good? They hardly paid any attention to me this evening. It was just Titus, Titus, Titus, right across the board. And did you hear that he almost started talking about love? It isn’t Titus who should talk about love, it’s me!’


Eddie doesn’t look Astra in the eye. Instead he is blinking feverishly and staring at Titus, clenching his fists so that his knuckles go all white.

‘Can’t you see how he’s draining me? He stole me, he’s emptying me! He’s crawling into me, he’s filling all my senses with his stinking blackness, and he just stands over there and smiles with his rosy cheeks. I f*cking hate it!’

Astra looks at Eddie with growing amazement. Something seems to have cracked inside him. Nasty marsh gases are hissing out of Eddie X the love poet. How the hell could she ever have felt attracted to him?

These bloody artists. She must get away. Quickly.



Titus sees Astra suddenly leave the party. She looks tired and irritated. A pity, he had hoped to talk a little more with her. Now there is nothing else to keep him here at the party. He decides to set off for home. He is dead tired and looking forward to having a moment to himself. He hasn’t had so many social contacts for months. How did he manage it before, when he was nearly always at parties?

Titus says ‘See you, then’ to Lenny, who insists on following along a bit of the way, even though he is a bit unsteady on his legs on account of all the gin.

‘Okay, let’s go,’ says Lenny.

Might be a good thing, thinks Titus. Now I can try to pump him about that break-in and what sort of mischief he and Eddie are up to.

They set off together down the narrow alleys. Near Hornstull they meet a bunch of Hammarby supporters with their green and white scarves. They joyfully greet Lenny and Titus as if it was obvious that the only thing people are thinking just now is that Hammarby has won a home match at the S?der stadium. Yes, this is a good day for Stockholm. Warm weather, a football victory and a legendary Spoken Word evening – could it be better?

Titus is most satisfied with his evening. He has delivered a top-notch reading and got paid 4,000 kronor cash. He’ll be able to live on that for a while. The only fly in the ointment was that Astra and Eddie spent so much time together; he really hopes that Astra has listened to his warnings. In his heart he wants to believe that she is on his side.

Somebody calls his name from across the street. Titus turns around. He sees the young couple from the steps, the two who sat right at the front and who were so enthusiastic when he read. They each blow him a kiss, and give him a smile. He waves back, slightly embarrassed, puts his hand over his heart and gives a little bow. Just think: they became a couple thanks to him!

Titus couldn’t be bothered to pretend to be drunk any longer. Anyway, Lenny is so sloshed that he won’t notice. He decides to be direct, sink or swim.

‘Lenny, I was wondering…’

‘Yeah?’

‘What exactly are you and Eddie up to?’

Lenny stops in his tracks and looks stupidly at Titus.

‘What, how do you know?’

‘I just know. But why?’

‘I don’t know. Eddie wanted to. It wasn’t me.’

‘Come off it. I saw you running away!’

‘Yeah, well, I mean, it was me who was there. But it was Eddie’s idea.’

‘But why? What does he want?’

‘I can’t tell you, Titus. It’s impossible, I’ve promised Eddie. But I was only inside your place a few minutes. I didn’t take a single thing, I promise. I just looked.’

‘For what? Tell me what you are up to! Admit that you are spying on me!’

‘I can’t say any more. Stop it now. Stop it! You are the one who must talk. Now you must talk. I have promised. Please. Talk now!’

And Lenny continues the same pestering that he has been busy with all evening. What is Titus writing? How far has he got? Will it be good? What is it about? How many people know what he is writing?

Lenny goes on and on about it, but doesn’t hear that Titus never answers any of his questions. There is just Lenny’s monotonous one-way nagging, completely without interactivity. This is a sort of admittance of guilt too, Titus thinks, otherwise why would he keep on with these stubborn efforts to try to discover what Titus is writing? Yes, there is absolutely no doubt about it: Eddie and Lenny are in the midst of a gigantic coup. They seem to think that they can steal the copyright to a literary work. Idiots. Nutters. Small fry. Don’t they realise that they’re too late? He has virtually finished. It is just a matter of days and then it will start: the long success story of The Best Book in the World, with Titus Jensen on the cover.

He looks at Lenny. Suddenly it strikes him.

Lenny is not stuttering.

Lenny is not twitching.

He is not even swearing.

He has… recovered?