The Best Book in the World

by Peter Stjernstrom

  Believe it or not, Eddie even has a cooler from the 1940s in varnished mahogany. It is full of ice and contains two bottles of wine. Astra laughs at Eddie’s weird equipment.

  ‘Lovely, Eddie. Yes, I’m ravenous. And thirsty.’

  Eddie has rigged up an old picnic table in the cockpit. On the thwarts he has laid out piles of blue sailing cushions with short white bobbles in the middle. There are linen serviettes and he has even managed to make some toast in the storm kitchen’s frying pan. He lifts the lid on an old ceramic jar and smells the contents.

  ‘Ah! This is delightful chili mayonnaise. I made it myself from my mother’s recipe.’

  They eat the prawns, throwing the shells overboard as they go. Lots of small and medium-sized fish snap up the bits and swim to the nearest tuft of seaweed to continue the feast in peace and quiet. The little bay bubbles with sensual pleasure.

  ‘Here’s to the month of August. Cheers!’ says Eddie, and raises his old crystal glass. The locks of his hair are matted from the wind.

  ‘Cheers for letting me come along!’ Astra responds, and her hair is just as matted. Her camisole is all askew, slipping down one shoulder.

  ‘Cheers for your wanting to come along!’

  ‘Cheers for all of this.’

  ‘Cheers.’

  The newspaper has four spreads with tips for activities, but Titus can’t find anything to do. He is simply unable to shake off his paranoia. How can he possibly relax now, knowing that Eddie and Astra are out sailing together? Of course Eddie is pumping Astra for all she knows about Titus, and how easy can it be to resist Eddie’s charms when he turns on the charm? He’ll certainly be trying to wheedle out of her details about The Best Book in the World. She is probably quite capable of slipping out of his clutches, but still… How long can she resist him? Titus is absolutely convinced that the only thing going on inside Eddie’s brain is the creation of an immortal masterpiece – at Titus’ expense.

  He is facing a situation that most people never find themselves in during their whole life. This very evening, his entire future will be decided. He can let Eddie X reign, or he can take charge of the situation and make sure he can realise his plans without Eddie putting obstacles in his way just as he approaches the finishing line. Attack is the best defence, and if he must fight this battle without allies then so be it.

  He puts a fifty-kronor note on the table and gets up. He stands erect, with a determined look. It is wonderfully boring to be sober. Damned unpleasant, but refreshing at the same time, like taking an ice-cold shower. Better to be obsessed than dependent.

  And better to break into somebody’s house than let your masterpiece be appropriated by a handsome romantic poet.

  The wine bottles are empty. The last rays of the sun are slowly being tucked away in the cumulus clouds over the rooftops of northern Djurgården. The evening breeze has blown away and there is not a ripple on the water. The oil lamps are lit and ready to struggle against the darkness of night.

  Now Eddie serves freshly brewed coffee and ice-cold Carlshamn Flaggpunsch. The charged atmosphere has been further filled with laughter and talk. Eddie tells about when he and some friends sailed into Sandhamn stark naked during the big Gotland sailing race week. The old guys in the luxury yachts did not appreciate the naked teenagers at all, but the few luxury wives and mistresses that had been allowed to accompany them appreciated the boys all the more.

  The mood by the jetty became somewhat agitated, to put it mildly, and in the end a fat harbour master wearing a yacht-club blazer came and informed them that they were not following the ‘regatta dress code’. They could either get dressed that very minute or he would arrange a forced transfer to the Stavsnäs winter port. Eddie imitates the harbour master. He stands up, salutes and clicks his heels together.

  Astra almost chokes with laughter.

  They are having a good time together.

  And it’s going to get even better.

  Titus has guessed right. Since Eddie too lives in an old listed building, the locks are just as old and useless as they were at his own place. It is not difficult to find Eddie’s door: a big heart cut out from an old red blanket decorates it. The pointed end of the heart ends with an arrow indicating the letter box. ‘Put love letters here!’ announces a little handwritten note.

  It is easy to force the lock bolt back with some pressure from two credit cards pushed together into the door chink. Titus silently thanks the locksmith.

  He sneaks into Eddie’s flat. It looks as if somebody has thrown a feng-shui bomb into the place: two rooms and a kitchen and not a single superfluous object to be seen. White ceiling, white walls, white lye-treated floor planks, white curtains, white-stained old kitchen chairs and wooden furniture. Almost everything is white except for an enormous bed-cum-sofa which takes up a large part of the gigantic room. The place is full of colourful cushions of different sizes, and one of the shorter walls is covered with a floor-to-ceiling poster of a naked couple walking on a beach with a setting sun in the background. The contrast of the light room and the kitschy poster is fascinating; Titus remains standing there for a few moments before he enters the other room. As expected, there is a desk and a computer. The little study has more of the character of a traditional writer’s den – the walls are covered with bulging bookshelves, and books, brochures, newspapers, clippings and print-outs cover the greater part of the floor.

  Titus starts by going through the bookshelves. A bookshelf tells you everything about a person, partly by showing you which books are in it but above all by how they are arranged. The books in the collection don’t actually tell you what the book-owner has really read – the selection is more about the picture the person wants to present of himself. But the way they are ordered, you can’t hide that, it reveals everything. The people who have read the most start by arranging their books according to genre, with biographies and fiction in separate sections, likewise cookery books and photo books, and so on. The more genres, the greater the interest in literature, and after that of course there is strict alphabetical order according to the author’s surname in each category. The least literary person arranges his books according to size. It is dreadfully ugly and almost impossible to find anything. On the other hand, nobody ever takes a book out of that type of bookshelf. Some maniacs even try to arrange their books in colour groupings, but they are few. Eddie belongs to the first category, excluding the many books stacked in heaps due to shortage of space. But within every letter of the alphabet there is complete chaos: Dostoevsky comes before Dahlström. Kosinski before Kafka. He is a combination of a structure fascist, someone who goes by size, and a common-or-garden nutter. Strange indeed, thinks Titus. He looks in J, where his own books ought to be, but there is just a big gap.

  Titus finds the Jensen-books in a heap on the floor next to the desk. Oh my God! Some sort of espionage is clearly going on. He thumbs through the books but can’t find any notes or comments inside them. In fact the paper feels stiff, almost as if they haven’t been opened before. What sort of spy can’t be bothered to do proper research? Titus feels angry that Eddie hasn’t even read his books, despite having buttered him up and flattered him so many times.

  Titus looks out of the window to check if anybody is watching him. There doesn’t seem to be. He turns the computer on and sits down on the desk chair waiting for the program to start up.

  Ha! You don’t need a password to get in! He starts frantically to search among folders and files. The hard disk is mainly music, pictures and films. Titus bypasses these and soon finds a folder called ‘MANUSCRIPTS’. He opens it, and one of the sub-folders immediately catches his eye.

  The hair on Titus’ arms stands up when he reads the name: The Best Book in the World.

  Out on the Fjäderholm islands, calm has descended. The day-trippers who come with the ferry have long since gone home. The guests at the inn on the other side of the island are either in the restaurant or out on the jetty drinking whisky in peace and quiet. Th
e taxi boats won’t be coming for another hour or two.

  In the little bay where Come aboard amour is moored, it is calm too. The cockpit is empty and both the crew and the oil lamps have moved into the cabin. Eddie X and Astra are lying among the warm eiderdowns, flirting. A bit of kissing, and switching between nonsense and serious subjects of conversation. Eddie wants to know what it is like at Winchester’s. How do they look after their authors? What sort of contracts do they have? How much do the editors interfere with the texts? When it comes to Winchester’s, Astra is super-professional. She is a like a catalogue and only reveals carefully balanced information. She is more interested in how things are at Eddie’s publishing house, Babelfish. Does he think they market him properly? What would make him change to another publisher? What does he think of Winchester’s? Does he want her to arrange a meeting with Evita Winchester, completely informally?

  Titus starts reverentially poking around in the folder called The Best Book in the World. There is a Word file called ‘synopsis’. He opens it and reads a short list of bullet points:

  • The funniest T-shirt print in the world:

  THE WOOD GROUSE IS THE BIGGEST HEN BIRD IN SWEDEN

  • The best aphorism in the world:

  IT IS JUST AS LIKELY THAT THE WORLD HAS BEEN MADE BY GOD AS THAT THE MOON IS MADE OF CHEESE

  Is that it? Titus thinks about his own way of making a synopsis. He can easily fill an entire pad with handwritten notes before he even starts on the book. But this? What on earth is it? Either Eddie is trying to make a fool of him, or he has got writer’s block. Creative paralysis.

  Slowly but surely a lofty calm spreads through Titus’ body. Perhaps Eddie quite simply isn’t capable of doing battle with him. He has obviously tried, but without success. Eddie has sat down and started to note the contents of the book and the only things he has been able to think up are a weird T-shirt print and an aphorism, albeit a fairly clever one. But that is hardly a sustainable start for a bestselling non-fictional novel of decisive importance that is going to change the world. Such an idiot! Titus shakes his head.

  The next file is called Comeaboardamour_bestpoemintheworld. An expectant smile spreads across Titus’ face. Of course, he clicks that file to open it too.

  Beloved Astra, come to my yacht

  Work Eddie’s pump, give it a shot

  Come aboard and share my berth

  There’s lots of room; plenty of girth

  Dearie me, did the wave splash you?

  Take off your shirt before you’re wet through

  We have man-rope, tackle and leather

  The right equipment for all sorts of weather

  The keel is long with anti-corrosive iron bolts

  The varnish shines all shiny, the tiller bucks like a colt

  Come hither and I’ll kiss your curvy railing

  Serve you a full suit of sails and learn you some sailing

  And when you finally ask me to fill your sails

  I’ll gust from the south with all that entails

  Let go the topsail, clew up, hold fast!

  Sheet home my foresail and blow on my mast

  We’ll sing a sea shanty, drink grog, make mirth

  Make for the headland and tack up the firth!

  Ship ahoy! Come into my berth!

  Titus’s eyes are like saucers. What is this? Never in all his life has he seen such rubbish. Surely this couldn’t have been written by the brilliant romantic poet Eddie X? Titus reads it again and gets stuck on ‘The varnish shines all shiny, the tiller bucks like a colt…’ Shines all shiny? this must be the worst ever combination of a verb and an adverb, Titus says quietly to himself, and lets out a laugh.

  He starts thinking. Either the poem is meant as a joke, or Eddie has lost his marbles. Or his ability to express himself with words, at any rate.

  Suddenly, the meaning of the poem becomes clear to Titus.

  Eddie is going to seduce Astra! Evidently, there are no limits to how far that man is prepared to go. His creativity has become completely blocked somehow. He has lost the ability to write and is becoming a desperado. Frustrated artists can become furious, as Titus is well aware. Who knows what mad plans Eddie has to regain control?

  I must stop him, Titus thinks.

  I must warn Astra!

  Out by the Fjäderholm islands, Eddie is starting to become slightly drunk. He has drunk so much punch that his lips and mouth are sticky from all the sugar, and he has to tense his jaw muscles when he speaks so as not to slur his words. And like all tipsy boys he can’t manage to kiss and do the small talk for more than a short while. Suddenly he frees himself from the eiderdowns and opens his arms wide.

  ‘Come on, now, Astra. We’re going swimming!’

  He opens the cabin hatch and jumps up into the cockpit. There, he hastily tears off all his clothes with sweeping gestures and sets off round the deck in a wild Indian dance. He stops on the foredeck in front of the mast, thrusts a little with his hips and swings his dick a few rounds in the air before diving down into the black and glistening water.

  Astra is not quite as drunk as Eddie, but is just as exhilarated. When she comes up on deck and sees Eddie already in the water, she too undresses quick as a flash. She holds her nose and her bosom when she jumps into the water.

  ‘Lovely, isn’t it?’ Eddie shouts, and with a toss of his head clears his long fringe from his eyes. He swims a few metres in the bay and waves to Astra to follow. She swims after him. They stop and tread water a while without talking, just looking at each other.

  ‘This is heavenly! How can it still be so warm in the water?’

  ‘I love August! Look over there towards Lidingö, Astra. Can you see?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Look at the water! Look how it’s shining all shiny! I love it when it shines all shiny!’

  ‘Yes, it is beautiful when it shines all shiny. I like it.’

  ‘Hello, you have reached Astra Larsson at Winchester Publishing. Leave your name and your telephone number, and I shall phone you as soon as I can. Thanks for the call.’

  Damn, damn, damn! Titus shakes his mobile phone in the air as if it were to blame for Astra not answering. What the hell should I do now? Phone her again and leave a message? Text her?

  And in that case, what would he say? In the long run it is usually best to tell the truth. At the same time, he knows that Astra has fallen for Eddie. It would be hard to convince her over the phone that Eddie is a maniac. It would only rebound on Titus himself. He would look like a jealous nutter with a conspiracy theory. So what should he do? He must act, otherwise Astra might be tricked into something unpleasant. And, most important of all, Eddie might ferret out lots of secrets about The Best Book in the World.

  Titus comes to the conclusion that a white lie is the only proper solution at this stage. Whitish, at least. Off-white, he thinks, and sends off a text message.

  Then he simply turns off his phone.

  Time will tell, he thinks.

  The night bathers are back in the cabin. The swim and the charged atmosphere have already done for a large part of the alcohol. Astra and Eddie sit wrapped up in each other’s towels and eiderdowns, kissing for all they are worth. They caress each other’s hair. Their emotions are on fire. The oil lamps flicker sensually in time with their wide-open mouths. The dampness has started to leave their bodies and now settle as a mist on the small windows. They aaaah and ummmm as they kiss each other, sometimes with closed eyes that allow their hands to discover new wonders, sometimes with wide-open eyes that ladle in even larger portions of pleasure. Their legs are entwined. The towels and covers fall off. There is a great deal that is shining all shiny on the boat just now.

  Suddenly, the text alert on Astra’s telephone cuts like a machete right through the cabin. Robot-like, she stretches out for the telephone and opens the message before she has time to think – a message from the outer world can destroy a sexy moment easy as pie. But Astra isn’t thinking clearly, it is her mus
cles and nerves that decide. Her eyes and hands leave Eddie’s body and concentrate on the telephone display. Answering the phone is evidently a reflex that has a higher position in Astra’s needs-pyramid than the impulse to mate with the best man in the flock.

  RELAPSE. HELP ME. NOW. TITUS.

  ‘Oh no, what the hell…’ whispers Astra.

  Not many seconds pass before the erotic atmosphere leaves the cabin. Astra’s pupils whirl around in her eyes, as if trying to help her brain find something to cling on to.

  Eddie sits up a little and pulls the covers over his navel.

  ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘I don’t know. Something has happened to Titus. He seems to have gone on a binge again. He wants help.’

  ‘Oh dear. Has he tried to become sober? I thought he personified the everlasting party,’ says Eddie quietly, caressing Astra’s arm.

  Astra mutters some curses to herself and tries to phone Titus. But he has turned his phone off, and he hasn’t got an answerphone function turned on either. All she can hear is the telephone company’s automatic message which speaks in staccato.

  ‘I must go home,’ says Astra and looks desperate.

  ‘Really? Are you sure?’

  ‘I must. Anything at all could have happened. Can we do that, can we go home now?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I’ll start the engine and we’ll be back in the harbour in fifteen, twenty minutes.’

  ‘Great,’ says Astra with a slightly sad smile. ‘Eddie, this is just crazy. I really don’t want to break off this evening. You have been absolutely fantastic. You are absolutely fantastic. You make me horny as hell, and I think that I am actually a little in love with you. Really, really magical, all of it. I’m terribly sorry.’

  ‘It’s all right, Astra. Nobody can destroy what we two have here. Now let’s be on our way. We must save Titus Jensen for posterity.’