The Best Book in the World

CHAPTER 40



The Book Fair Begins; the Book Ends


There are long winding queues outside the Book Fair. It is the wonderful first day when expectations are at their greatest. Professionals and the general public alike are welcome. Book lovers, teachers and librarians from the whole of Sweden have come. Publishers and authors from all over the world are there. Journalists are greedy for exciting interviews and compete to be the first to savour the ‘buzz’ of the day. The very heaviest titles are always released just in time for the fair. It is quite simply a paradise for those who delight in books in all their forms.

When the first day of the fair comes to a close, it turns into one great big party for mingling. The various publishing houses compete to arrange the most popular gatherings and clock up the most visitors. All are friends and all are happy.

Just in time for the first evening’s big fair get-together, Astra brakes at the side of the main entry to the gigantic Swedish Exhibition and Congress Centre. There too is the entrance to Gothia Towers, the fancy fair hotel renowned for its stylish cocktail bar on the twenty-third floor. Over the years, Astra has bought a lot of Bloody Marys for thirsty authors. Several of them have even thought that the entire storey revolves on its own axis, which must be regarded as a compliment to the bartenders.

Down in the hotel foyer, there are two uniformed police officers together with Evita Winchester. They are waiting for Astra and her party. The two policemen look like twins: both of them have a trimmed chin beard partly shaved in a pattern and short ash-blond hair with lighter streaks. They look enormous compared to the little bundle of energy, Evita.

Evita who is wearing green boots, a green leather skirt and a very large white blouse that reveals a nicely tanned shoulder, hugs Titus and Astra and politely welcomes their fellow travellers.

One of the policemen stretches out his big hand to Titus and addresses him in the local accent.

‘Hello there! My name is Glenn Johansson. This is my colleague Kevin Andersson. Evita Winchester here has given us some very interesting information about a certain Eddie X. Can we have a few words with you?’

‘Yes, you can indeed,’ says Titus grimly.

Winchester Publishing and Babelfish have – as usual – their gigantic stands next to each other: two explosions of red-hot books with colourful and flashy décor stretching from floor to ceiling. The two publishers are in the middle of the main hall as a symbol for their being the heart of the industry. Then, like rings on water, the smaller publishing houses, media companies, branch organisations and literary societies spread out. Hundreds of small and large stands populated by people of like mind.

When it is time for the big get-together for drinks, the security guards hang up thick ropes between the Winchester Publishing and Babelfish stands so that no unauthorised guests will get in and enjoy the free drinks. The ropes dangle loosely between smart brass posts. It looks very fancy, like an Oscar gala in miniature.

Every year the party at Babelfish starts up with Eddie X pumping up the mood with his warm poems about life and love. People inside as well as outside the ropes are welcome to listen. It is one of the highlights of the book fair and this year there are more people than ever in the premiere public. They are full of expectation.

Yes, Eddie X has also made his way to Gothenburg. He has driven fast and avoided the motorway as much as possible since he has had an unpleasant feeling of being followed. Now he has made his entry on the little stage in the middle of the Babelfish stand. He is barefoot and dressed in trousers, jacket and a buttoned-up shirt. His clothes are of super-creased cotton and the three items of clothing are batik-dyed in various shades of grey. It is different and very smart. His black hair is matted and the grey shades of his clothes are mirrored in his face. He has fist-size rings under his eyes, which stare right into the public. He is not his usual self at all. He must have planned a new exciting prank. You can see the public thinking: ‘This is going to be cool!’

He sits on a high bar stool and grabs the mike.

‘Hello. Everybody comfortable?’

‘Yeees,’ answer the public rather feebly.

‘I said: EVERYBODY COMFORTABLE?’

‘YEEES!’

‘Good for you.’

The public laughs. It’s amusing that he has switched perspectives. The loving one pretends to be grumpy. Hahaha.

‘I’m going to read something for you.’

‘YEEES!’

The people in the public look at each other. Now it’s starting. It’s going to be delightful and sincere.

‘This is something that Titus Jensen has written. Do you remember him?’

Everybody laughs. Of course they have heard of Titus and his readings. The has-been who threw away his writing career. And now Eddie X is going to read Titus Jensen. A sort of meta-event. Hahaha.

Eddie produces a copy of Treacherous Charades and turns to the first page. He has seen Titus do this many a time and now he lays on the theatrical effects as best he can.

‘“It is a daaark and stormy night. A high pressure area that has parked above the British Isles shows no tendency to divert to the north. The supercoooled sleet that has lashed Stockholm’s windows for more than two weeks suddenly passed over Johannes Karlsson’s attic flat. It rained into his little pad.”’


Pause for effect and a scattering of applause. The public smiles expectantly. It isn’t funny and warm yet, but it soon will be.

‘“In the glare of the lightning flashes Johannes could see that the floor was wet. It rained in even more and soon there were small waves on the floor and around the bed-legs. Johannes pulled the wet covers up over him, put on his goggles and observed the course of events. Pissing it down. How would he get to work now?”’

The public giggle. What a dreadful story.

They don’t have time to find out more about Johannes Karlsson. Two police officers climb up onto the stage. Eddie looks at them and his gaze becomes wild. He throws the book at the policemen, screams at them to disappear. The public laughs. Hahaha, now it’s starting for real. This is much funnier than the bedroom farces at the popular theatres. Eddie pushes the bar stool over when he tries to escape and the microphone smashes to the floor with a roaring echo in the loudspeaker. The grim-looking policemen have grabbed him each with a firm grip on one arm. They are a head taller than Eddie. His feet dangle freely between them.

‘NOOOO!’ he screams.

A man comes onto the stage. It is Titus Jensen! The man in black is now dressed completely in white. White buttoned-up frill shirt, white leather trousers, white leather jacket and white patent-leather shoes. He smiles like an American TV faith-healer. Somebody turns an extra spotlight on. The flood of white light almost dazzles the public. What’s going on? Titus Jensen lifts up the microphone and taps it. Yep, it works.

‘Hello?’

The public are now quiet. This is exciting. The police seem indifferent. Eddie looks desperate, dangling there between them. He stares at Titus with murder in his eyes.

‘Hello. Hi, my name is Titus Jensen. I know you have come here to listen to Eddie X. But I want to borrow your ears for a minute. Is that okay?’

The public nod in silence. Mumble.

‘I am sober,’ says Titus in a low voice but close to the microphone. ‘And I can work.’

The book-fair public has never encountered anything like this before. Is it an AA meeting?

Titus looks at Eddie dangling between the two policemen. His matted black hair hangs over his eyes and the blue and orange streaks look tired. He squirms like a worm.

‘I have written a book that will be published in the spring. It is going to go well. But best of all is that more books will follow. And it is Eddie X who has made it possible for me to look ahead again. Eddie, your methods were unorthodox but they worked in the end. I am not a mess any longer. I am free, I want to work and I am grateful.’

Titus looks at Astra, Evita, Lenny, Malin, Ralf Rolf and Christer Hermansson, who are standing below the stage. They are watching him expectantly. Then he looks Eddie in the eye and takes a deep breath.

‘Now I only want to say one thing to you…’

The public is extremely attentive. The air in the hall stands still. Eddie stares at Titus.

‘Eddie, I am going to do everything in my power to ensure you come through this in one piece. I promise you that.’

The public don’t know what it is about but they applaud cautiously because they think that what Titus is saying sounds good. Brotherly love, so to speak. Titus turns towards them and says in a serious tone:

‘Love, that is the most noble form of energy in the universe. Love is the only source of energy that grows the more it is used. So if you want this planet to survive – love each other! EXPLOIT LOVE!’

Cheers and laughter. Warmth returns to the Book Fair once again.

There is more whispering than ever at the get-together party on the Winchester Publishing stand. The rumour about what has happened spreads rapidly and a lot of people sneak a look at Titus Jensen. Today he feels comfortable with those glances. It doesn’t matter what they say. He knows who he is.

It is nice that it is all over. Sure, it is fun to be at the Book Fair, but most of all Titus longs to get home to his flat and his computer. His own computer, not the Winchester one with the breathalyser lock. He is looking forward to a long winter with hundreds of wonderful working days.

Evita puts her hand on Titus’ arm. She leaves it there quite a while. Titus gets a tickling feeling in his tummy.

‘Titus, I must tell you about a fantastic idea that the marketing department has come up with.’

‘About The Best Book in the World? That sounds exciting…’

‘We want the book to get on the bestseller lists in several categories, don’t we?’

‘Yeah, right… Fine by me…’

A waiter passes them and Evita snaps up a glass of champagne and a plate with cheese squares stuck on cocktail sticks. Titus takes a glass of juice.

‘The content is just fine,’ Evita goes on. She raises her glass in a sort of toast to the air and takes a sip of her bubbly. ‘You have covered everything in the manuscript. It is exciting, useful, helps the reader develop, and all of that. But now they have come up with a brilliant idea for the cover.’

‘Okay?’

Evita takes a bit of cheese and raises it to Titus’ mouth. His mouth opens like a reflex. Evita smiles, pleased.

‘Oh, it’s such a great idea! Listen! This is how it goes: we’re going to have two different covers. But on the same book. You see, the front and back covers are going to be upside down in relation to each other, so however you turn the book you will see a front cover. A stroke of genius, don’t you think?’

‘Err, yeah well,’ says Titus not really understanding, and takes a gulp of juice. ‘Tell me more.’

Evita takes a deep breath and adopts her sales-conference voice.

‘First we have the thriller cover. Imagine a mysterious little girl in a white dress in a nasty hospital setting. The era is unclear, but it’s in the past. Associations to ritual experiments, or possible trade in organs. And above the hospital scene hovers an unpleasant person in a gas mask, like an evil spirit. An all-seeing Dr Mabuse or Kaiszer S?ze. In an old-fashioned mask against mustard gas.’

‘But why, why that? There isn’t any little girl or a gas mask mentioned in my book…’ Titus attempts.

‘That doesn’t make any difference,’ Evita interrupts him, irritated. ‘There is surely nothing more unpleasant than small innocent girls and anonymous men in gas masks? No, that really is the most unpleasant combination one could imagine. We’ve checked that with focus groups. So people are going to buy it.

And then perhaps we throw in a Gothic cross too, they can be really horrible.’

‘But…’

‘Ah-ah-ah! Sssh…’

Evita puts a finger over his mouth to silence Titus’ protest. With her other hand she strokes the top of his hand. She puts a couple of fingers under his shirt cuff. A long way in. Caresses his arm quickly but soft as silk. Titus gives a start. He tries to think clearly and is just about to fire off one of many questions whirling around inside his head when Evita goes on with the unofficial sales conference.

‘And then we have the other front cover. The self-help book. A beautiful couple running across a summer meadow. Slim, of course, thanks to your ABC Method. Perhaps we’ll have a raised title in silver or golden foil to create associations to major prizes. Dazzling, fertile smiles. They look horny in a sort of jolly Danish lightweight porno way, but above all they are happy and successful. What do you think?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t really understand. My covers don’t usually have a picture, but just the title clearly visible. Black, grey, white, small print. Perhaps an edging. Slightly French literary cool… sort of…’

‘Yes, exactly, that’s why! We are launching a new Titus Jensen.’

She takes a cocktail stick with cheese and puts it into Titus’ mouth.

‘Tasty?’

‘Mmmm…’

‘The best part of this is that the bookshops won’t know which cover to display on the shelves and in the window. That means they will place several copies side-by-side! So your book will get a lot of exposure. It will be the best visual effect in the world. The Best Book in the World plastered all over the bookshop. People will be falling over to buy it!’

‘The Best Book in the World after The Best Book in the World after The Best Book in the World…’ says Titus dreamily and paints the image before him with his hand.

‘But, best of all… we’re going to have some knockout blurbs.’

‘Blurbs?’

‘Yeah, you know, quotes from a celeb on the front cover. And you know what, I’ve got a really great hold on the permanent secretary of the Swedish Academy. And now it’s time to make use of that!’

‘You’re kidding… you don’t mean…?’

‘Yeah, it’s rather fun. But I’m not kidding. He’ll do it. He coiled himself around my little finger some years ago. And did it all by himself. And now, I’ve only got to ask him nicely, my little permanent secretary. Isn’t it wonderful?’

She puts another cube of cheese into Titus’ mouth. Nice taste. Very nice. It is working out okay, this.

Evita leans over towards him. She breathes her warm breath into his ear. Blows out air down his neck.

Her décolletage approaches his eyes. He thinks he recognises that bosom. Is it her? Yes, indeed, it is!

A tremor runs through him.


She whispers into his ear. Snarls.

‘You look good in white…’

The warm air from her nose is like a whirlpool inside his ear, like a fizzy tablet for his brain. Her hand rests on his arm. For a long time.

Snarl.

Growl.

‘… but me, I look best nude.’

Doctor Rolf has never done the cocktail-party thing at a book fair before. Nor have Lenny and Malin. They think it’s great and drink eagerly of everything that is served. Astra, who has had her hands full with greeting authors and booksellers, comes by to exchange a few words.

‘How are you getting on? Are you getting something to drink?’

‘It’s all great!’ bellows Doctor Rolf. ‘Tell me, are there lots of celebrities here?’

‘One or two,’ says Astra and looks around. ‘Over there, for example, that’s Pablo Blanco, the Mexican bestseller-author who writes self-help novels.’

She points towards a man, short of stature and wearing a black polo sweater. He has a little tuft of hair on his neck, the sort that the boldest little boys in day nursery tend to have nowadays, the ones who push little girls into the sand pit and have dads who play ice hockey. Standing a few feet behind him is a grumpy woman with a flowery old-lady dress. Despite it probably having cost a packet, it looks about as good on her as a moth-eaten curtain in an old barn. She is Blando’s agent and manager. A number of pretty young girls have flocked around Blando. He has sold millions of books and his celebrity status is magnetic.

‘The grey mouse behind him is his agent, Veronica Fuentes,’ Astra goes on. ‘The Bitch in Barcelona, that’s what they call her in the branch.’

‘What!’ yells Doctor Rolf. His eyes grow dark. ‘Is that Pablo Blando? F*cking… hell.’

Astra looks at him, surprised.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘That bastard has destroyed many lives,’ hisses Doctor Rolf. ‘I’ve had loads of patients on account of him. First they read his books and then they think they have found the “Path of Life”. The worst book is The Maker of Gold. They read that and think they have seen the light. However, slowly but surely they bury themselves in gloomy pondering, start to imagine that they need to find more happiness in their lives. And in searching for that, they lose their foothold. And when the happiness doesn’t materialise and liberate them, then they are going to feel unhappy, aren’t they? They start looking for what’s wrong with them, for symptoms. They read even more books about happiness, but no happiness results. In the end, they have acquired an affliction and they must somehow make their way out of that. If only they can become healthy again, then they will find happiness. But in actual fact they have never been ill! No, f*cking hell! Years of multi-therapy can be necessary to make them whole again!’

‘Oops, I had no idea…’

‘No, nobody wants to admit it,’ hisses Doctor Rolf aggressively. ‘Everyone keeps mum about it. But lots of the people who read his books would feel a lot better if they read the telephone directory instead and didn’t think so damned much. That is the truth! No, f*cking hell, I am so damned tired of all the imaginary invalids who have read The Maker of Gold, I could throw up!’

‘You don’t say…?’ Astra responds cautiously.

She does of course work for the publishing house which publishes all of Blando’s books. They earn pots of money from them, and don’t have any plans at all to stop. And from what she can tell, Doctor Rolf’s intellectual wanderings are not exactly ‘mainstream’. Has she ever heard of multi-therapy making anybody happy? Perhaps best to manoeuvre her way out of this subject. Ralf Rolf seems to be something of a powder keg. Astra adopts a diplomatic smile.

‘You will have to tell him in person what you think.’

‘Yep, um. Perhaps,’ Doctor Rolf flares up. ‘Good idea…’

Cocktail parties are the mother of all business deals.

Astra introduces one foreign publisher after the other to Titus. They have all heard of his story and now they want to say hello to the miracle from the earth cellar.

A distinguished elderly gentleman with an American accent introduces himself as Collin Harper. He claims that he wants to publish The Best Book in the World in fourteen countries. He has heard that it is ‘amazing’.

Titus Jensen gives a slight bow.

Astra Larsson a little curtsy.

Evita Winchester laughs out loud.

After the drinks party, it is banquet time. The very most prominent guests at the book fair have been invited. A huge swathe of fair delegates gathers in the main hall ready to take the large escalator up to the party. Evita has quickly succeeded in conjuring forth tickets for all of Astra’s fellow travellers. The singular group moves slowly towards the party like a little tail after the other guests. One by one they step onto the escalator.

Astra and Christer Hermansson go first. They are laughing and seem to be enjoying each other’s company.

Then come Lenny and Malin. They are tightly entwined and can hardly believe this is true. Astra wants to publish a book about the story of Lenny’s life. Tourette’s and Me – Not an Easy Journey, by Lenny Rolf. She has offered him a juicy advance.

Then comes Doctor Rolf. He sneaks a grim look at the fairytale old man Pablo Blando who is a bit higher up on the escalator together with two young girls and his grumpy agent. Blando gesticulates and kisses the girls on their cheeks and hands. Doctor Rolf rolls up the arms of his white coat and mutters to himself with clenched teeth: ‘I’m having an old friend for dinner.’

Last in the escalator come Evita and Titus, arm in arm. Flashes of lightning from her green eyes. He smiles roguishly with his blue eyes.

For a few seconds Titus turns his back on those who are above him on the escalator. He looks out across the wonderful mass of adventures and stories down in the hall. He loves what he sees. Fantasies, he thinks, mere fancies and fantasies. Dreams and illusions.

Titus is on the way up. He stretches out his arms. Extends all his fingers widely. Bends his neck backwards and closes his eyes. Fills his lungs. He is just about to shout out as loudly as he can. But he changes his mind and instead breaks into the biggest smile in the world. With a calm soul he whispers to his new-found best friend.

Better to be obsessed than dependent.





PART III


In Which Reality Catches up with the Author and His Readers





Sometimes the final battle is not fought until as late as early October.

Walls of yellow and red foliage rise up among the trees while the high summer winds try to trick the course of nature. But even though the sun is warming, it is nevertheless too low in the sky to allow the leaves to reflect any green life. The struggle is doomed beforehand. The Indian summer has so far never beaten the autumn, but it does at least take its final breaths with a warm smile on its lips. To die a hero’s death as a proud Indian, exhausted and in full warpaint, gives hope of reincarnation.

The cliffs, air and water. The long summer has allowed the elements of the archipelago to reach the same warm temperature. There are no contradictions and no strong winds blow up. The bays between Stockholm and the outer skerries have a mirror-like surface reminiscent of newly washed shop windows.

Astra’s long narrow vessel cuts through the water with a whisper. Her hair is collected in a ponytail which sways in time with the movements of the boat. She holds the tiller in one hand, and has her other hand’s index finger on the nautical chart. She has turned the GPS off. Navigating without electronics is freedom. Making way slowly with a super-fast boat is relaxation.

She glances behind her to see how her passenger is managing. He is sitting right at the back on the leather-clad cushions on the stern thwart. His arms outstretched and his hands with a firm grip on both the port and starboard railings. His shirt is unbuttoned almost down to his navel. His taut chest is brown and newly shaved, with a shiny glow. His long black hair waves in the air in keeping with the proud Swedish flag in the stern. A few dyed strands decorate his hair, rather like speed stripes. He is the very image of a handsome young man.

Astra smiles and eases on the throttle. They are almost there now. They’re going to have all of Stora Nassa to themselves.

She lets the boat slowly glide in towards the old jetty on Stora Bonden. This is the largest island among the old crown harbours where the fishermen used to spend the night during the most intensive herring-fishing periods. The first settlers came as early as the eighteenth century, and at most about ten poor families lived in small cottages on the cliff. Nowadays the whole area is a nature reserve and a protected area for birds. But when the nestlings have flown their way at the end of the summer, then you can visit again.

Astra turns the engine off, steps nimbly over the windscreen and jumps out onto the jetty. With just one hand she quickly secures the boat fore and aft. The silence that arises when you have turned off an engine in the outer skerries is paralysing.

‘Now do you see?’ she whispers with pretended irritation out of the corner of her mouth. ‘I’m not as unfamiliar with boats as you seem to think.’

‘Sorry,’ he laughs, and gets up on unsteady legs to try to go ashore. ‘Sorry, but I have only written a novel. It isn’t the truth.’


She stretches out her hand and helps him off the boat.

‘Get a look at this. It is a paradise.’

After having meandered around on small paths among stonecrops and heather amidst the cracks in the rocky surfaces, they sit down at the highest point on the island and look out across the bays to the west. Nassa is so far out that even the inner skerries disappear beyond the horizon. Far, far away in the glitter above thousands of invisible islands lies Stockholm. A white-tailed eagle hovers like a wide plank high up in the sky searching for shoals of fish in the evening sun which is slowly crawling down from the sky. Soon darkness will come, soon the last battle will be fought.

Astra strokes her hands over her thighs to straighten the creases in her short summer dress. She then pulls out a couple of glasses from a little cooler in padded beaver nylon, and a beautiful bottle which looks deliciously chilled with its drops of condensation running along the narrow body.

‘May I tempt you with this summer’s last glass of rosé?’ says Astra, and unscrews the bottle.

‘I need to talk to you,’ he says and lifts a strand of orange hair off his face. He looks worried. Pained.

‘Yes, that’s what we’re going to do. We shall celebrate and talk. That’s why we are here.’

‘I… I want to talk about the book,’ he says quietly in his leisurely northern accent.

‘Yes, Titus. That’s why we are doing this. We’re going to celebrate that you have finished editing the manuscript. And talk. About the book.’

Titus’ dark velvet eyes don’t look as if they are in a party mood. They are sad.

‘I don’t know, Astra. It feels as if I’ve committed suicide.’

‘What are you saying? Why?’

‘Well, using their names…’ he says and scratches his neck inside the black collar. He twists his loose hair half a turn and lets it fall onto his back.

‘Yes?’

‘I don’t know… is it really going to work? People know who I am and what I stand for. Is it wise to do this? I’m smashing everything with this book. Besides, Eddie X is going to go bananas.’

Astra puts her hand on his arm.

‘Now listen to me. It isn’t the end of the world if he does. Who cares about bald old men in batik clothes? Don’t bother about him, we must think about what is best for you now.’

‘But what I mean is: is it really necessary? Do I go too far? Why can’t I be the young guy in the book too? Perhaps all it needs is to change clothes on the characters? I’ve only got to “find and replace” and change all the names in the manuscript to make it all more credible. Not quite so utterly barmy.’

‘You know what I’ve said all the time. Poetry and collections of short stories are a cul-de-sac, Titus. You are young. You have a large public who love what you do. This is your debut as a novelist and you must be prepared to take a few risks. You are an artiste, remember that. Besides, it was your idea from the very first. It was you who wanted to explore more sides of yourself.’

‘Yes, I know. But it’s all so bloody weird… will the readers really understand? There are so bloody many meta-levels… It is almost as if I myself get confused. An author writes a book about an author who in actual fact is another author. And that author is also writing a book and competing with another author who wants to write the same book. And the last author is really the first author. That is… me. Or however it is. What the hell do I mean anyway?’

‘But Titus, what is the alternative? That we use a pseudonym instead of your real name? That would be even worse: an author pseudonym writes a book about an author who is writing a book about an author who is competing against another author. And the last two both think they have written the best book in the world. No, it wouldn’t make it any better.’

‘Don’t you think… But… We could think about it, couldn’t we?’

Astra raises her hand as a stop sign. A serious wrinkle appears between her eyebrows.

‘No! Remember one thing, Titus. You already have the best readers in the world. They love to be misled. And now you’ll get lots more. You have invited them to join you on a fun journey, but you are not their cicerone. They themselves are the ones who create their experiences and memories. I think that they like that everything isn’t fixed like the worst sort of package holiday. I promise you. Besides, most of them are going to laugh maliciously when they think about Eddie X in reality. Sitting there half-sloshed in former colourful silk rags and sitting in a rage at his regular table at the Association Bar. Talking about Baroque in Their Blood from ’95 and similar bombastic nonsense. Trying to pick up cultured ladies and supporting himself by reading weird old books at pop festivals. No, in the long term I think you’re doing him a service. Perhaps he might pull himself together and write a good book again.’

‘Do you think so?’

‘Well think and think…’ says Astra, a big smile appearing on her face. ‘You can use your imagination a bit, can’t you? Makes life a bit more fun.’

They remain sitting a while on the rocks, talking about the book and about each other and following the course of a belated flock of geese flying in plough formation over the archipelago. Astra puts her arm around Titus. They watch the sun against the horizon. Titus buries his cheeks in Astra’s hair. It turns to evening.

‘Now it’s time to gorge ourselves on prawns!’

Astra comes up out of the cabin with a large bowl of fresh prawns. They have put up a little camping table in the middle of the cockpit, laid with china plates, oil lamps and linen serviettes, fresh bread, wine and aioli.

‘Ho, ho, wonderful!’ laughs Titus. ‘When fiction turns into reality, so to speak!’

‘You can bet on that,’ says Astra and blinks her long lashes a couple of times. ‘This is only the beginning.’

They eat the prawns and throw the shells into the sea one by one. Small and medium-size fish come and gobble those delicacies in the dark water and disappear down among the clumps of seaweed with their catch.

‘Cheers to the summer!’ says Astra and raises her crystal glass.

‘Cheers to the autumn! That is nice too,’ Titus responds.

‘Cheers to the book and because it is finished!’

‘Cheers to the publisher!’

They clink their glasses together.

‘So how does it feel now?’ asks Astra with eyes that encourage total honesty.

Titus sighs.

‘Fine, thank you, but I am starved and dried up. I am empty and a bit down. I’m jiggered. I just want to eat, drink and be myself. I am so incredibly tired of Eddie X. I must start thinking about something new soon.’

‘You can take it easy, Titus. You have done a good job, a great job. I am pleased to have been a part of that journey. And extremely curious as to what is going to happen with you and me. We have shared so very much more that just work during this period. Plus that in between the lines of the manuscript I read a hidden declaration of love.’

A glow comes to Titus’ eyes.

‘Hidden, uhmm hidden…’

‘But I can’t fathom how you could know that my middle name is Evita. It isn’t exactly something one likes to make a show of. Yes, there is something new between us. A bit ticklish, I like it. But now let’s eat! And then we can have a dip. If you dare – there is a full moon.’

No more wine bottles left, the coffee cups have been emptied and the schnapps glasses are empty. The last summer night has now settled like a comfy rug over Stora Nassa and Astra’s boat.

They have moved into the cabin. The oil lamps are struggling to dry the dampness from the wet towels lying across the floor. Not with much success. The windows have misted over.

Steam rises up from the bodies of Astra and Titus entwined under the covers in the wide berth in the forepeak. They kiss each other gently, stroking each other’s wet hair, caressing each other’s damp bodies. Feeling their way forward.

It is the calm before the last panting minute of the final battle, when the summer’s death rattle meets the first breaths of autumn. Molten lead will be poured over those who can’t keep their cool. The cowardly ones will drown in their own blood. Now they are blowing on the trumpets, now the battle calls are starting to ring out. Now shining swords are being unsheathed, now rifles are being filled with powder, now the guns are being rolled towards the fortress and millions of brave soldiers are running towards the raised drawbridge to make the leap of their life – to life or death.

Soon the battle will be underway.

There is shaking and rocking in the cabin, everything is wet and stiff.

It is shining all shiny.

Astra’s telephone rings. For a couple of seconds, the sound waves from the phone are the only thing moving in the whole world.

In a reflex action she reaches for the phone. But before she answers, she looks at the display to see who it is.

‘What? It can’t be true!’

Astra looks at the phone with uncertain eyes. It doesn’t care about her unwillingness, but just goes on ringing. The seconds march with ant-steps through the cabin. Hundreds of uniformed drummer boys hitting their hickory sticks against the taut skin of the drums.

Derre-dumm.

Titus stares at Astra without blinking.


Derre-dumm. Derre-dumm. Derre-dumm.

It is a fateful moment. Everything will be decided here and now.

Derre-dumm. Derre-dumm-dumm-dumm.

The will to live conquers the will to try to please people. Astra clicks on the ‘Don’t answer’ button. She turns her phone off and without looking around throws it over her shoulder. It lands softly on the pile of wet towels on the floor.

Dark angels blow fanfares on their trumpets. The warriors on the battlefield bang their steel against the flint. The gunpowder in the fuses starts to hiss again. Attack. Forward!

‘Who was that?’ Titus asks while simultaneously greedily licking Astra’s earlobe.

‘You wouldn’t believe it anyway.’

‘Yes, please, I want to know.’

Astra rolls Titus over onto his back. She holds his arms against the mattress and boards him slowly while simultaneously painting his chest with her wet hair.

‘You… you don’t need to know everything. Mmmm… you should live in your fantasies instead. Life is much more fun then.’