‘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…’
CHAPTER 17
A Worthwhile Art Round
It wasn’t the first time this week that Detective Chief Inspector Håkan Rink had stood in front of the large noticeboard in the incident room. It was almost entirely covered with little bits of paper in various colours. Each colour represented a different type of ‘note’ as it is called in police jargon: crime scenes, clues, testimony and so on.
It was late evening and the team had gathered together to listen to an art historian tell them more about Salvador Dali’s driving forces. The crime scenes contained increasingly obvious signs that the serial killer was inspired by the surrealist twentieth-century painter.
‘Thank you for not going home to your dear families just this evening,’ Håkan Rink started off. ‘When we capture Serial Salvador, not only your own families will thank you – the whole country will show its gratitude. Sweden is cowering in terror. We see how the fear acquires new and nastier ways, such as bomb threats against museums with avant-garde exhibitions and the persecution of experimental authors and contemporary artists. Indeed, people vent their anger at culture in general as if it was culture that was to blame for how society has become harder. But I am still convinced that culture is a mirror of society – not the other way round. Let me welcome Alf Linde, one of Sweden’s foremost experts on the surrealist movement.’
The ten or so police officers in Rink’s team gave Linde a short but friendly round of applause. Linde was very old and looked as if he himself could have been around when the Dadaists were transformed into surrealists under the fanatical command of the author André Breton in the early 1920s. When he spoke, there was a quiver under his chin like that of a turkey.
‘Thank you, Håkan. Yes, in this case it does rather look as if the murderer is busy creating a reality mirror of art. Very strange. To the best of my knowledge, this is the first time a murderer has copied an innocent artist. I am therefore also convinced that if you are ever to catch him you must become deeply familiar with Dali’s art. Understand it with your subconscious mind.’
The colleagues in the team nodded gravely at each other. That seemed sensible. They already know somethi
ng about Dali, but definitely needed to learn more.
Now he must be concise, Titus thinks, and puts the brakes on his frenzy for a while. It would be a piece of cake to spew out thirty pages about Dali. His enormous waxed moustaches alone were worth a couple of pages. Did Serial Salvador have the same? No, that would be too simple.
Alf Linde handed out copies of a hand-written page and chuckled aloud to himself: ‘Here’s Dali in a nutshell; here’s Dali in a surrealist nutshell.’
Against the simple For the compound
Against uniformity For differentiation
Against equality For rank
Against collectivism For individualism
Against politics For metaphysics
Against nature For aesthetics
Against progress For permanency
Against mechanisation For dreams
Against youth For mature Machiavellian fanaticism
Against spinach For snails
Against film For theatre
Against Buddha For Marquis de Sade
Against the Orient For the Occident
Against the sun For the moon
Against revolution For tradition
Against Michelangelo For Raphael
Against Rembrandt For Vermeer
Against primitive objects For over-cultivated objects
Against philosophy For religion
Against medicine For magic
Against mountain regions For coast
Against figments of the brain For ghosts
Against women For Gaia
Against men For me
Against time For soft clocks
Then Alf Linde talked for just over an hour about Dali and his art. Why he distanced himself from the other surrealists, how he became so extremely successful commercially, and how he eventually buried first his wife Gala and then himself in the cellar of his surrealist mansion in the middle of the Catalonian town of Figueres. It became a museum of his life’s work and one of the most remarkable tourist destinations in the world. Naturally with sky-high entrance fees.
‘In conclusion, I must tell you something about his inventions. Before Salvador Dali made his breakthrough as an artist, he sketched a number of innovations to earn his living. He carried out a bitter struggle and was regarded as an idiot by those to whom he tried to sell his ideas. Here are a few examples: dresses with false insertions around the hips and bosom to distract men’s erotic fantasies; false nails with mirrors; water-filled transparent mannequins with swimming goldfish inside to illustrate blood circulation; kaleidoscopic spectacles for motorists for when the surrounding landscape got too boring; tactile film where cinemagoers could touch the settings in the film. And so on, and so on. About one hundred of Dali’s inventions are well documented. What we can see today is that many of them have become reality in one way or another: the push-up bra; virtual reality spectacles; 4D cinemas, et cetera. Perhaps he wasn’t mad, just terribly before his time. But listen carefully now. The invention to which he devoted the greater part of his energy was the rotating pork sculpture. He bought large amounts of meat at the butcher’s and hung it on crutches that he placed on electric rotating tables. Nobody knows what he wanted to achieve with the rotating pork. What do you think? Was he as mad as a hatter, or was he simply a misunderstood inventor?’
Truth and knowledge were the keys to Håkan Rink’s leadership. No frenzy to find positive images à la sporting clubs. No group-dynamic exercises fashionable for team-think in the commercial sector.
His police colleagues looked at each other, suddenly struck by the insight. They must search for Serial Salvador among inventor circles. Go through rejected applications at the Patent Office. Investigate misunderstood entrepreneurs and devoted enthusiasts who have not been given their credit. Dig among people labelled with odd combinations of letters to find those that have lost their footing. That is where they would find him!
Håkan Rink smiled contentedly to himself. Yet again, his simple and direct methods had borne fruit.
This time it was the FFI Method: FACTS are the FATHER of IMAGINATION.
CHAPTER 18
The Best Pizza Recipe in the World
After the evening meeting, the chief inspector treated his colleagues to some sustaining night food at the police station.
Håkan Rink’s Quattro Stagione, the pizza with four ‘seasons’.
Pizza dough
½ packet of fresh yeast: crumble the yeast into a large bowl
Add 200 ml lukewarm water and dissolve the yeast in the water
Add 500 ml wheat flour
Add 3 tablespoons of olive oil
Mix the ingredients into a pizza dough. Grease a roasting pan with olive oil. Cover the bottom of the pan with the dough pushing it out to the edges with your fingers. Cover the pan with a tea towel and leave it to rise for about 20 minutes while you prepare the sauce and the various toppings. Turn the oven to 250oc.
Pizza sauce
I tin of chopped tomatoes
2 tablespoons of tomato purée
2 teaspoons of white pepper and black pepper
A few drops of Tabasco
1 teaspoon of oregano
1 teaspoon of salt
1 crushed garlic clove
Mix all the ingredients for the pizza sauce, and taste. By all means sprinkle a little vinegar, sugar and pepper onto the mixture. Experiment a little! Let the sauce simmer a long time.
Pizza toppings
Prepare the toppings while the dough is rising.
Fresh, newly peeled prawns
Fresh, finely sliced mushrooms
Air-dried Italian ham
Mussels pickled in water
Pickled artichoke
Cut and grate the cheese: equal amounts of mozzarella, emmental and parmesan
When the dough base has risen for 20 minutes, spread the sauce over it and start with a layer of cheese.
Divide the pizza into quarters and add the topping in the following order: from ‘12 o’clock’ on the pizza and clockwise: ham is winter, mussels are spring, prawns are summer and mushrooms are autumn. If you believe in God, stick an artichoke in the middle. Push the topping gently into the sauce with you hand.
Bake in the oven for 15–20 minutes at 250°.
If you have used an artichoke, say a prayer.
Take a break from the ABC Method, and enjoy the best pizza in the world!
CHAPTER 19
White Coat
Titus is sitting on the exercise bicycle at the gym. The sweat is running down the inside of his old bleached T-shirt with the Einstürzende Neubauten print that he bought in Berlin in 1983.
He has started to appreciate these two-hour breaks all the more. When Astra had turned up with a gym membership card, he had just snorted at her. But she evidently knew what she was doing. Titus has a feeling that she always knows what she is doing. An alpha woman. Young, attractive, clever, independent and with just the right amount of pushiness. He couldn’t have a better editor. He has been lucky in that respect.
Titus likes his new life. It’s been going on a few weeks now. Not since his teens has he had such a long period without any alcohol at all. Sure, he pulls out his reward image now and then, but it’s more to keep it alive than because he really needs it. Like an amusing joke, a pleasant memory. For the time being, another form of energy keeps him away from spirits and cigarettes.
The book.
Writing gives him energy. He’s rattling along and he knows it’s going to be good. The book is easily accessible in its style, but heavy as lead in its themes. He throws in so many references that critics will be kept busy for decades trying to analyse his intentions. The characters around Håkan Rink are built up in such a deliberately slow and refined manner that the reader should feel obliged to read on. The breakthrough and unexpected turning points are planned down to the tiniest detail. At the same time, Titus is careful not to reveal too much to readers. That would be an insult to their intelligence. Too many details are for
nerds and bores. My readers are here making history with me, Titus thinks. It is my readers who will fill the characters with flesh and blood. It is my readers who will create the details in the room. It is they who will get involved, who will let themselves be amused and worried. My readers are the cleverest and the best, he says to himself, and pedals away for all he is worth on the exercise bike.
Titus doesn’t like the suburbs. He has lived all his life in the centre of the city and likes crowds and asphalt. The few times he has been on holiday abroad, it has only been to other big cities. There, he never runs the risk of suddenly finding himself without a bar within easy reach.
Of course, he has been in the countryside – but only in the safe context of a boozy midsummer party or similar event. Titus has always felt that nature shows off a bit, that as soon as he comes along it spruces itself up to an incredible degree and tries to seduce him with its birdsong and its smells, although what it really wants to do is entice him into the mud in a dirty forest pond. And suddenly he has been conned. He sinks slowly under the surface while the pixies scornfully laugh at him with the blue midsummer night sky in the background. No, the countryside is hell. Out there, you must be on your guard. Or very drunk.
The suburbs are not the slightest improvement on the countryside. People in the suburbs are farmers. Instead of tractors, they drive around in enormous estate cars. All they talk about is the weather, sports news and lotteries. The only difference from real farmers is that the suburban people have cheap blue suits instead of cheap blue overalls.
Now, Titus is forced to visit the suburbs. Well, forced is perhaps not strictly accurate. He has been given a chance to learn about therapy for free. It would be an abuse of his professional responsibility not to profit from the chances that pass his way.
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