Read The Best Book in the World Online
Authors: Peter Stjernstrom
‘No?’
‘It’s about my dad.’
‘What? Your dad?’
‘Yes, I’m trying to find out what actually happened when I was a child. You know, Titus, I regard myself as a fairly happy person. Yet there is an unpleasant darkness somewhere which sometimes drags me down. I suspect that it is my childhood that is behind it all.’
‘So now you’re going to write a book about your dad?’
‘No, no, I’m working on my summer programme. On the radio, you know. They’re broadcasting it next week, there’ll be millions of listeners. I’ve had to rethink it completely; at first I’d planned to do a programme of reminiscences interwoven with my favourite music, from when I was little up to the present day. A delightful document of the times, with lots of nostalgic touchdowns. First time I made out, the first festival, stuff like that. But then I got hooked on a Peter LeMarc song that I heard him play live long before his stage fright got the upper hand.
Blue Light.
Have you heard it?’
‘I don’t know…’
‘It goes something like this: “I was born under a blue light. Grew up in a blue house. Lived in a blue binge. But now I realise that there is another Sweden. I have seen that there are other colours.”’
‘Yeah, right, I think I’ve heard that.’
‘I started thinking about what the lyrics could mean to me. And then it struck me. I too grew up in a blue house. Metaphorically speaking. My dad was a nutter.’
‘A nutter?’
‘A paranoid schizophrenic,’ says Eddie. ‘He suffered from severe delusions and was often deeply depressed. He got the idea that evil people climbed into his soul and stole his goodness.’
‘Oh dear,’ says Titus. He can’t help wondering how he got here, in a heart-to-heart conversation about Eddie’s dad through a chink in the door at the City Library.
‘Sad pictures pop up out of my memory. But I don’t want to apportion guilt. I simply must find out more. So I have borrowed loads of books about this, other people’s stories about what it is like to live close to a mental illness. I have been forced to re-do the whole programme. There won’t be any laughing and kidding. I am going to turn my heart inside out instead. It will be a one-and-a-half-hour blue summer.’
Titus breathes out. In a sense, it is a relief to hear that Eddie had a rotten childhood. It means that he won’t have time to think about
The Best Book in the World.
I hope he’ll dig really deep into the shit, Titus thinks maliciously. After the light comes darkness. Eddie is on his way into a tunnel. Hope it will be long and narrow. Now I am the one who sees the light!
But, in that case, who the hell has borrowed all the books? Is there another rival? Or is it all just another figment of his imagination?
Titus realises that he has gone down the wrong track. It is ridiculous to try to follow other people’s recipes to create a bestseller. He could read all the bestselling books in the world without being able to find a pattern. No, he must find
The Best Book in the World
within himself.
Now he is the little boy at the woman’s bosom again. He licks away his milk moustache and waves goodbye to Eddie and his crazy dad.
Quick recap. What has he got?
He has an overweight and charismatic detective chief inspector who has cracked an important slimming code and will soon change the world’s view of leadership. On top of that, he has a polished serial killer, a frightfully tasty pizza and the best artist in the world throughout the ages, his soul mate Salvador Dali. Plus lots of good ideas and a synopsis that will soon overflow from his brain. Wonderful.
Time to go to work.
Serial Salvador. He had seen the name on the placards for several weeks now. It was repulsive. A way of simplifying and uglifying. His task was much more beautiful than that. His art would not fit on a newspaper placard. His art would not fit in a museum or an art hall. They would get to see. They would feel it.
Sure, there had been artists before him who had worked in his spirit. The American photographer Andres Serrano, for example: his photos of dead people in mortuaries were dazzlingly beautiful. Murdered gang members and innocent mugging victims. Naked, broken, bloody and seductive. Serrano’s pictures were hated by some, loved by others. But was it art? Wasn’t it simply
documentation
of the art works of others? Somebody had killed another person deliberately, perhaps for revenge or some other desire.
It must surely be the person who triggers the experience who is the artist, not the one who experiences it, looks at it or just consumes it? Serrano portrayed experiences, he didn’t create them. Did that make him an artist? Or was he just a tool in the service of the murderers? A paintbrush, a canvas, a palette with paint. Yes, it must have been the murderers who were the real originators.
Serial Salvador. He sniffed at the name. No, he would once and for all rub out the boundary between moral and immoral, between art and reality. When the crime-scene technicians from the police took pictures of his installations, those works of art became eternal. The police became Serrano-clones, obedient tools in his service. Without understanding it themselves, they became artists, public and critics at one and the same time. Shocked and in despair, they stood there and lit up his installations with their camera flashes. Dead and mutilated bodies hung up on weird crutches in the strangest of places. Men, women and children,
nobody escaped. When the photos were subsequently spread between colleagues, prosecutors and media leaks, the whole world became his art hall. The guardians of morality became the foremost apostles of immorality. His art was spread at the speed of light via TV, radio, the Internet and newspapers.
The person who spread it most and best of all was that slimmed-down Håkan Rink, who presided over press conferences and theorised about his offender profiles. It was repulsive. Repulsively delightful.
The days pass in the sign of mass murder. Titus has full sail. He is relaxed and writes at a furious pace.
Better to be obsessed than dependent.
Serial Salvador hangs people up on crutches.
Chief Inspector Håkan Rink is right on his tail.
S
ometimes Titus has to take a rest from his writing. Not because he wants to, but because the computer turns itself off at regular intervals. Astra has decided that Titus must rest now and then. Besides, he must stay sober as he has to use the BAC lock every time he wants to start working again.
Yes, Astra is a wise editor. The alcohol lock ensures that Titus slaves away at the computer when it is turned on. Each session lasts for exactly six hours. When the computer turns itself off, he can’t start it up again for two hours. As if out of respect for the computer and its sleep mode, Titus always puts the lid down and says ‘Sleep tight!’ During the breaks Titus manages to eat, rest and communicate with the outside world. He turns his mobile on and checks whether he has any messages. He rarely does.
Today the fridge is desolate. A half-eaten pizza tries to make itself look interesting through its transparent and greasy plastic container. It is unsuccessful. Titus sighs deeply and looks at the clock. Yes, he’s just got time to get down to the shop if he hurries.
Then the telephone rings. He answers angrily:
‘Yes? Titus Jensen here.’
‘Hello, Titus. This is Fabian Nadersson! Can you spare a minute?’
‘Hello… er, no, I’m just about to go shopping. What is it about? Wasn’t it you who tried to sell Mensa courses to me a while back?’
‘That’s right, Titus! We had a really nice offer there.’
‘Fabian Nadersson… what sort of name is that actually?’
‘It’s my name, Titus.’
‘But I mean Nadersson. Never heard it before.’
‘Exactly. I used to be called Andersson. Now I’m called Nadersson.
A bit more personal. I feel very comfortable with it. That’s how it is, Titus. Can I tell you what is on my mind today?’
‘Do I have any choice?’
‘Haha. Of course you do, Titus. Obviously you have a choice. Today I’m phoning on behalf of the Multi-therapy Association.’
‘What did you say it was called? Multivitamin Association?’
‘Multi-therapy, Titus. Multi-therapy Association.’
‘And what on earth is that?’
‘Well, thank you for asking, Titus. I’ll tell you. The
Multi-therapy
Association offers solutions for motor-skill and mental blocks. The pedagogy assumes that all problems can be solved. Does that sound good?’
‘Good? It sounds ridiculous. What do you mean “all problems can be solved”? Can they go and do my shopping, the people in this association? I need milk and bread. And eggs. And quick as hell.’
‘Haha, nice one. No, multi-therapy is a form of treatment that deals with – for example – obsessive-compulsive disorder. What I can offer is an open house at a multi-therapist near you. On Saturday, the association has open house across the country. It is free to get information, and if you want you can then buy a test consultation which costs only four hundred and
ninety-nine
kronor for the first hour. Since you live in Stockholm, I can warmly recommend a visit to Dr Rolf on Valhallavägen. He has a very good reputation.’
‘What, is it free?’
‘Yes, the actual information is free. And the first hour is at the giveaway price of four hundred and ninety-nine kronor, as I said. Does that sound interesting?’
‘What do you mean? You don’t want to sell me anything, here and now?’
‘This conversation is a part of a national telemarketing campaign that the Multi-therapy Association is carrying out. You don’t need to buy anything. Shall I book you in for a free session now on Saturday? Shall we say at 10 o’clock at Valhallavägen 1?’
‘I’m not sure about that. Are you certain it won’t cost anything?’
‘Not an öre. Thank you, Titus, then that’s settled. You are booked in to see Dr Rolf on Saturday at 10 o’clock, Valhallavägen 1. Good luck!’
Titus shakes his head. Multi-therapy sounds New Age. If there’s anything that Titus dislikes, then it is incense and new spiritual things. At the same time, it will do him no harm to leave the flat for a couple of hours and gather some new impressions. He knows, too, that spiritual things sell like hotcakes, regardless of whether they are new or old. Who knows, perhaps he can get some ideas that Håkan Rink can use in his hunt for Serial Salvador. A good chief inspector must be an expert on relationships and therapy, he has always thought that. Now he’ll have the chance to learn some more.
T
he view of the Old Town and Riddarfjärden bay is enchanting. The grey-toned glass from floor to ceiling lets you see both the blue water of Lake Mälaren and the cumulus clouds over the parliament building. Of course there aren’t any curtains or furniture to obscure the view of the beautiful summer day. There is a gigantic walnut desk and a lime green suite from Italy in the room – that is all. On the desk is a chalk-white laptop on a large leather writing pad in the same shade as the sofas. Otherwise, the desk is empty, except for a large flat screen with a white frame. Although this is a room at a publishing house, there isn’t a single bookshelf in it. That is most unusual. Most of the other rooms at Winchester’s are packed from floor to ceiling with books, manuscripts, newspapers and catalogues.
Astra Larsson sits on the sofa in Evita Winchester’s room and waits for Evita to finish talking on the telephone. It is irritating that Evita never turns her phone off when they have a meeting. Evita is always available and her contact network is red-hot.
Evita Winchester has had a unique career. During the twenty-five years she has been working, she has done a stint as an arts reporter for
Dagbladet,
been editor-in-chief in Swedish Radio’s Culture Hour, head of the arts section at the
Evening Post
and director of programmes at Swedish TV. It was, of course, always on the cards that she would eventually end up as boss of the family’s own publishing house, but she has always emphasised over the years how important it is that all the companies in the group are run on a commercial basis and not by nepotism. And nobody thinks Evita Winchester got the job just because she’s called Winchester. In just a few years, she has made Winchester’s the most profitable publishing house in Sweden. She herself is most proud of having
realised at an early stage just how important it was to control the new distribution channels. With the help of lots of money and skilful manoeuvring, Winchester’s now owns large segments of the electronic book trade and the distribution companies that have long-term contracts to supply books to the major retail and
supermarket
chains.
Evita is one of those people it is impossible find irritating once you meet them. All grudges and bother are forgotten as soon as you see her face to face. Those green eyes are lively, and her lips – always just as red – seem to move at the speed of light. Her energy and presence are extremely contagious. As soon as Evita puts down the phone, Astra feels her mood improving.
‘Sorry, Astra! I had to take that call,’ says Evita and runs her fingers through her short jet-black hair. She sits on the sofa beside Astra.
‘It’s okay. Don’t worry.’
‘Goodness, what beautiful legs! Do you wax them?’
‘Yes…’
‘I mean, do you do it yourself or go to a parlour?’
‘I do it myself…’
‘Goodness, you’re so clever! How do you find the time? You look gorgeous, Astra. Really,’ says Evita in admiration with a gaze that devours Astra from top to toe.
‘Thank you… you too,’ says Astra in an attempt to reciprocate.
‘What have we got today?’
‘Well, to start with I want you to know how Titus is doing, and then I need a little help with Veronica Fuentes.’
‘The Bitch in Barcelona?’
‘Precisely.’
‘Oh dear, are we there again? Well, well, let’s get on with it! How are things going for our dear Titus?’
‘They’re going well. You were quite right to force him to pledge temperance. He is in really good shape now and is slaving away.’
‘Is it going to be good, then?’
‘I haven’t seen anything yet. He wants to get a bit further before he shows me anything. But from just looking at him, it’s going
to be good. At first he was a nervous wreck, but now he seems calmer.’
‘Great news. Yes, without doubt he is one of our best. If only it wasn’t for the booze, he would be a national treasure. Just imagine if he could be sober for real! Then he would have the whole country at his feet. At any rate us women, haha! There’s something of a merciless animal about him that is extremely attractive.’
‘You think so?’ says Astra surprised. She has never ever thought of Titus in that way.
‘Yes, absolutely. He can be dead good-looking. He is completely uncompromising. I like that. Don’t you remember those author portraits that Ulla took of him for
Baroque in their Blood?
Of course, it’s a long time ago. But in those days he was drop-dead gorgeous! Shaved head, sun tan, and his shirt unbuttoned down to his navel. Yummy!’
‘Yes, well… perhaps. Whatever. It seems to be really going well for him. He has even started going to the gym. I think he sneaks off to a solarium too sometimes, but I haven’t dared ask him, haha,’ laughs Astra.
‘Is that true? God, men get so silly when they approach their fifties. Haha, it’s wonderful! Let me know when he is getting close to finishing and I’ll invite him to dinner. I can gobble him up in one gulp, don’t you think?’ says Evita with a loud and lively laugh.
‘I promise. I’ll bring him along on a leash. Grrr!’
‘Super. But seriously, Astra. You’ve done a fantastic job. You’re going to pull this off. It’ll be fun to read when the time comes. Just make sure you follow up regularly. You can never trust an addict one hundred per cent, even if he has become a teetotaler. Don’t forget that.’
‘No, I won’t forget,’ says Astra and uses the serious note that turned up after the laughs. ‘This means everything to Titus. He knows it, and he knows that we know it too. I think we can strike gold here, I really do.’
‘Good. In that case we shall print a huge run straight off and prepare the market thoroughly.’
‘I’m going to meet him the day after tomorrow. We’ll see how far he has come.’
‘Good. That’s settled then. Have you got new worries with BB?’ Evita wonders, giving her head an anxious tilt.
BB means the Bitch in Barcelona. That is the name that the people at Winchester’s use for the literary agent Veronica Fuentes in Barcelona. BB runs an extremely successful agency which only has a single client, the bestselling Mexican New Age author Pablo Blando. Blando writes self-help books about how to find the right path on your journey through life, how to accept your sexuality and see the spirituality in everyday situations. He often bases his stories on old tales and legends that he polishes up and fills with poetic one-liners. He has millions of readers, most of them women. Winchester’s launched him successfully in Sweden about ten years ago and since then he has had a regular spot on the bestseller lists.
But the more you have, the more you want. The bitch in Barcelona is never satisfied. She and her bitchy staff bombard Blando’s publishers across the world with daily demands for follow-ups and reports on what has been done on the PR front. BB doesn’t trust anybody, despite the fact that the publishers have bought the rights for astronomical sums and ought to be interested in making a good job of it. The Barcelona bitches always unleash their mail-bomb missives at night, which makes publishers fear a new list of demands in their inboxes when they come to work in the morning.
‘Now it’s worse than ever,’ sighs Astra, who has been landed with BB and Blando since she is exceptionally tough and is a rising star at Winchester’s.
‘What’s new?’
‘There are several things. Above all is that business with the Nobel Prize.’
‘Oh no, not again!’ Evita exclaims and rolls her eyes.
‘Yep, she is quite bonkers. She demands that I write a report on the strategy we have to get him on the Academy’s shortlist this autumn.’
‘But that’s impossible! He’ll never get the Nobel Prize. Never
ever. Not in this life, and not in the next. He writes quasi-
philosophical
soft porn chicklit. Boring rubbish. I don’t suppose they have ever even considered opening one of his books!’
‘I know, Evita, but I can’t say that to BB. Besides, I haven’t time to write reports for her. It doesn’t say anything about reports in the contract for the rights, does it?’
‘No, of course it doesn’t.’
‘The thing is that she’s got Pablo to believe that he is in the running for a prize already this year. So now he wants to come to the Gothenburg book fair in September to show his interest. He thinks that the more often he comes to Sweden, the more delighted the Swedish Academy will be with him.’
‘No, no, no! Absolutely not! The fair is in just a couple of months. No way. Everything is already planned. It isn’t possible to arrange a seminar or anything good now. No, he can’t come. He is
not
allowed to come.’
Pablo Blando has already visited the annual fair in Gothenburg several times. Although he is about seventy, he still has an exceptional ability to attract women. There is always a long queue when he signs his books, and he pays most attention to the very youngest women. During a four-day visit he usually invites at least as many young girls up to his hotel room to spend the night with special Latin treatment. And in addition, he doesn’t refrain from picking out the most beautiful one and taking her to the big banquets arranged by the fair and the publishing houses. ‘This evening you are my wife!’ he usually whispers chivalrously, and kisses her hand until she blushes. What he likes best of all is to feed her little bits of cheese on cocktail sticks – in public. Everybody there thinks it’s terribly embarrassing, but what won’t people do to rub shoulders with a bestselling author and his never-ending ability to make gold from gravel. Astra has seen it and can sometimes be disgusted with herself for being a part of the word-alchemist’s senile circus act.
‘The bitch knows there isn’t much time,’ she says. ‘That’s why she wants Pablo to come to Gothenburg incognito. It’s just sick. Like when a king travels abroad without it being a formal state
visit. Secret, but nevertheless she wants lots of media coverage. Why not? She regards him as royalty. But you know what the worst thing is?’
‘No, what? Must there be some Viagra waiting in the room as usual?’
‘Listen to this. She wants to arrange a lunch for the Swedish Academy with Pablo as the host. He is a member of the Mexican Literary Academy and the social occasion would strengthen the ties between the two countries, she thinks. Pablo would be able to help introduce more Swedish authors in the Latin American market. She is very enthusiastic and thinks it’s a brilliant idea. You get it? You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours,…’
‘Is she out of her mind?’ exclaims Evita her hand on her forehead. ‘To ask to get the Nobel Prize is like pouring a bucket of shit over yourself in a public square. Nobody forgets such a faux pas, never ever.’
‘Actually, I don’t think she does get it,’ says Astra with a resigned sigh. ‘I’ve tried to tell her in a nice way, but it just doesn’t sink in. I’m going on holiday soon and must sort this out pretty quick. Have you any good ideas?’
‘Okay. Lets do it like this. I’ll write a very clear letter to Veronica and say that it would be a total disaster to even show yourself in Sweden if you ever want to get the Nobel Prize. I can ask the cultural attaché in Barcelona to deliver it to her in person. That ought to have an effect, I think. Then we’ll not run the risk of seeing Pablo at the book fair for at least the next two years…’