The Best Book in the World

CHAPTER 32

Autumn Leaves


Titus Jensen looks out of the window.

The lady on the balcony is busy tidying her flower tubs. The first night frost will come soon. She must save the plants and put them in her chipped winter pots. She does that every autumn. She puts the pots on the marble windowsill slabs, together with all the framed photos from bygone days. The plants will winter there and remind the old lady of the past life that might come back and visit if only she takes care of her memories. Her wrinkled face breaks into a cautious smile. Every time she remembers, she becomes beautiful in her curly and grey-white frame. She pulls off some dry leaves, lets the wind catch them, and follows them with her gaze as they fly away.

In the up-winds along the house facades, the plant leaves join the first autumn leaves, the yellow leaves from the outermost branches of the trees which have suffered so much in the summer sun and are now forced to capitulate even though it is still early September. Their safe and green sister leaves closer to the tree trunk, which still have a month or so to live, have not experienced half as much. They have only stared at one another all spring and summer, safe and dependent on the never-ending supply of nutrients from their thick mother branch. Inside, there amidst the cool greenery, they rustled in dignity now and then when the wind tore at their wild brothers and sisters on the tips of the branches. They have remained nice and green all the time, but oh how boring it has been! Now the leaves that have lived a life are sailing away in the wind, down to the lawns and borders where they will compost themselves while waiting for reincarnation. They are going to come back, younger and wilder than ever. Next time they will find themselves even further out on the branch, experience even more.

The old lady looks sad, although she is smiling. A lot of leaves have left her. Perhaps she too will want to become soil. Perhaps she too will want to become young again.

Titus looks at the lady. In some ways he can understand her situation. But at the same time it is sad to just look back. All that we have is now and the future. Everything else is history. I am where I want to be, he thinks. Money? Yes, certainly. Appreciation? Guaranteed. Women? Absolutely. The memory card with The Best Book in the World on it contains everything he needs to be happy.

For the time being he can’t write another word. He has run out of energy. He knows that he must eventually return to the manuscript and alter it when Astra and the editor have read though it carefully and made their comments. He wants to walk through Stockholm before the autumn makes the city grey and cold.

Astra’s telephone answering machine:

‘Hello. You have reached Astra Larsson at Winchester Publishing. Please leave a message after the beep and have a nice day.’

Beeep

‘Hi Astra, Titus here. I’m on my way in now, hope you are there. I have finished. I’ll bring the memory card with the manuscript. I’ll keep the computer as I assume there will be a few rounds of editing later in the autumn. But I think the book is actually pretty good quality already, so I’m on my way in now. See you soon. Very soon. Kiss.’

Kiss? Where did he get that from? Jesus! So unprofessional! As if he was talking to his old mum. He blames it on the fact that his emotions are so vulnerable after a long and intensive working period. Astra will surely excuse him; she ought to understand what he has gone through. He has worked virtually every day all summer with his manuscript. Work – six hours, break – two hours. Work – six hours, break – two hours. Day after day. He did it.

He goes into his little bathroom and gets undressed. He stands naked in front of the tiny bathroom mirror and shaves his head with great precision. He trims his beard down to one millimetre and notes that his beard growth is acquiring an increasingly grey hue, not that it matters. He takes a quick shower in cool water and uses a file on his feet, something he has started to do this summer. Before, he hadn’t even noticed that his heels had cracks. He dries himself thoroughly, even between his toes, and rubs in a rich moisturiser all over his body, this too a new ritual. He puts on a newly ironed black shirt and black suit from the wardrobe. He looks strong, handsome even. He walks up to the computer, puts the lid down and says ‘Sleep tight’.

Locks the door. Chooses the stairs rather than the lift. Is aware of every step he takes. Feels the energy returning. This is one of the most important days in his life. Now he understands what it feels like to be on the way to a maternity unit. He faces a tense situation with a forced calm. If you are going to retain control, then you must go easy on expressing your emotions. Should he allow himself the luxury of a taxi in honour of the day? Say to the driver: ‘Take me to Winchester Publishers. Make it quick, a novel is about to be published!’ He smiles a little at himself when he gets down in the entrance hall.

But what is that smell?

Something isn’t quite right.

A damp wetness settles on his face. The entrance hall goes black. Tiredness strikes quickly like the blow from an axe. He can’t walk to Winchester Publishing. He can’t even take a taxi. He must sleep instead. He tries to fight it. He wants to go to see Astra! Tries to shout out to her but gets cloth in his mouth. Takes a deep breath with his nose which is almost free. A pungent aroma. More dampness. No more air. Cloth in his nostrils too, like a wet hot towel in his face. Or a rag. His eyes smart. They are bleeding. He is forced to close his eyes under the dampness. Even more tired. Must rest. Falling. Tries to wave his arms to retain his balance. They are stuck to his body. Rough cloth around his body. First it was his shoulders. Now his legs. Everything is just stuck. Tight fit. Belts everywhere. Or ropes. Tighter and tighter. Round all of him. That’s nice. Relaxes. He’s going to sleep now. His legs leave the ground. He is an autumn leaf. He flies off. Or is carried. Sleep tight.