The Best Book in the World

by Peter Stjernstrom

  There had been little time but the Stockholm police force had managed to arrange it all. The effort was planned down to the tiniest detail. Rink’s men were posted on every second row in a zigzag pattern. When they had identified him, they could nab him easily. As soon as the prizes had been awarded and the cameras turned off, that would be the end.

  Håkan Rink himself was invited to present the prize in the most prestigious category – Entrepreneur of the Year. He had considered whether it was suitable to mix his roles. On the one hand, a hard-working detective chief inspector who needed peace and quiet to be able to focus on his task; on the other, a public security alibi from a pressured police force which was forced to deliver very soon. The sand in the hour-glass of patience was running out. But the triumph of being able to stand on the stage and perhaps even establish eye-contact with Serial Salvador moments before he would be rendered harmless had got the better of him. It would go well. It usually did.

  When the spotlights were pointed towards him, he could immediately feel the heat. The audience cheered.

  From the loudspeakers: ‘A warm applause for Håkan Rink, Sweden’s toughest detective chief inspector!’

  He took some quick and light steps up to the podium at the front of the stage. His leather jacket glowed in the light. He screwed up his eyes against the spotlights and waited for the applause to die down, raised his hand and leaned over the microphone. Bass voice.

  ‘This is the most important prize in Sweden. I am extremely proud to have been entrusted with this presentation. It is you entrepreneurs who shall make the future more secure for our children. It is you who shall save the planet from pollution. One can summarise what you do in five letters: G-R-E-A-T. As in a great job!’

  The audience was familiar with Håkan Rink’s predilection for combinations of letters, and they had a good laugh at his hearty self-irony. The mood was the very best.

  Håkan Rink smiled at the spotlights.

  He took hold of the rope which controlled the curtain in front of the big screen where the nominations in the very best class would be presented.

  ‘And the nominated are…’

  All cameras and spotlights were pointed at the stage. The lighting was excellent.

  Håkan Rink gave the rope a firm tug.

  With a crash, something large and heavy fell from the ceiling above the stage. The chief inspector ducked quick as a flash and shielded his face. A short murmur came from the audience before the terrified screams broke out.

  A man hung from an enormous upside-down crutch suspended from the ceiling. He had a thin rope around his neck which was tied across the arms of the crutch. The body jerked in severe spasms. The large brown eyes stared hard at Håkan Rink. A long mane of black hair hung like a curtain from his face, weirdly dyed strands of hair. His wrists were tightly handcuffed and the man beat his arms wildly against his own stomach. Perhaps he wanted to free himself. Perhaps he was trying to get his body to swing even more.

  The volume of the screams lessened a little when the spectators realised that there were no explosions or shots in a second shock wave. This wasn’t a terror attack. This was something else.

  The man swayed slowly above the stage in the glow of the spotlights. His feet jerked violently for a further few seconds. The most clearheaded members of the audience tried to get their breath back and leave the rows of seats to reach the exits. Others held their hands in front on their eyes in a naive attempt to avoid being there. Panic vibrated in the air. The police had to struggle with the fleeing audience to approach the stage.

  His eyes stared. His mouth smiled. There were no more jerks.

  A beautiful corpse in a well-lit setting.

  Serial Salvador’s final work of art was a fact. Death had finally made him immortal.

  Håkan Rink too became historic. The national hangman. The man who re-introduced the death penalty on one occasion.

  Live on TV. During peak viewing hours.

  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.

  CHAPTER 33

  Country Life

  Astra is in a meeting at the office. They are talking about the programme for the imminent book fair and going through all the signings and programmes that their authors will be attending. The Gothenburg Book Fair is unique because both professionals and the public are welcome. That creates a special atmosphere and gives the book industry a unique gauge of what readers actually value. But for the publishing houses the fair is a comprehensive apparatus that costs a frightful amount of money. Nothing can be left to chance. For example, all the authors must eat well and stay at the most expensive hotel – they can’t have different hotels for different authors, since officially they are all worth the same. Obviously, the bestsellers must have decent accommodation and that means all the ‘cultural’ authors automatically get the same treatment. So they must slim down the production and maximise every hour that an author is at the fair. Once there, every author will have a permanent companion from their publishing house to guide them around the fair floor between various signings, seminars and interviews. So they need lots of people from Winchester Publishing at the fair, but when it comes to their ‘staff’ accommodation a strict hierarchy applies: the bosses stay on the top floor of the fair hotel in the city centre while the plebs are spread out in rings around the city, according to their rank.

  Winchester Publishing has a strong list this autumn, and the highlights will be presented at the book fair. Their competitors have lots of exciting things to present too. In addition, the fair will be hosting several interesting authors from abroad. There will be a delightful mix of high and low, from the lightest entertainment to unknown poets who write in dying languages – just what your average cultural consumer wants to read and hear the latest about. It is extremely likely that there will be (again) a record number of accredited journalists. Those who claim that literature is a dying medium have never been to the Gothenburg Book Fair.

  Astra has got so far in her career that she has a fairly free programme at the fair. She is going to chair a couple of mini-seminars, host some dinners and help the agents at the international rights centre to present some really heavyweight titles.

  She has put her phone next to the big planning calendar and sees when it starts to vibrate. Looks who is phoning. Titus, oh well. He can wait. The phone signals that the answering machine has recorded a message.

  After a while, Evita looks in through the door.

  ‘Astra, can I borrow you a moment…? There’s something I need to ask you.’

  ‘Sure.’

  Astra gets up and takes her phone with her. She is going to check what Titus wants before she goes back into the meeting again. They go into the corridor.

  Evita looks around to make sure nobody can hear them.

  ‘Yes, well… this is the situation. The Bitch in Barcelona has just phoned. She wondered if we had booked the same suite as last year for Pablo Blando.’

  Astra looks surprised.

  ‘She phoned you about that?’

  Are there no limits for that control freak, Astra wonders. Must she double-check with my boss too?

  Evita seems to almost understand what Astra is thinking.

  ‘Well, they have slightly different ways of going about things in the Latin countries. We’ll have to put up with it. But I promised her I’d check with you. Can you email her about it?’

  ‘I already have done… but okay, I can do it again,’ says Astra brightly.

  ‘And there’s one other thing. A bit sensitive, perhaps that’s why she phoned me. Pablo is beginning to get a bit old and evidently gets an awful lot of palpitations when he takes Viagra nowadays. So she has started to ration his dosage.’

  ‘Oh, I’m glad about that, because it isn’t so easy for me to get hold of…’

  ‘Yeah, but the catch is that…’ Evita interrupts her without completing her sentence. She looks down.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘She wants us to get him some crushed reindeer horn instead.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She says that it would be the best for his heart.’

  ‘You’re joking!’

  ‘He has evidently seen a documentary about the effects of reindeer horn. When he was on a book-signing tour in Japan.’

  ‘No, I can’t believe it!’

  ‘I agree, it is totally sick. But true. We’ll laugh at it someday.’

  ‘I really hope so,’ says Astra and looks slightly worried. She knows what is coming now.

  ‘So can you arrange it, do you think?’

  ‘I suppose I’ll have to.’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid so,’ says Evita and tilts her head to one side. ‘You’re so incredibly competent.’

  When Titus wakes up, he still can’t move. He tries to remember what has happened. Yeah, right, he was on his way to Winchester Publishing with the manuscript. And then he fell asleep.

  It is dark, completely pitch dark. He opens his eyes wide to try to see anything at all. Nothing. He tries to open his mouth. He can’t. His lips are stuck together. It feels as if he has an iron band across his face on the level of his mouth.

  He can tell that he is sitting and that he is stuck there. An iron band around his wrists and ankles too. Or is it tape? It is probably tape because he can’t feel any sharp edges when he tries to wriggle his way loose. Tape round his stomach too. Two hard poles against his back. A kitchen chair?

  His nose is free. He takes a deep breath. Cold, damp air. Is he down in a cellar? Or up in an attic?

  He snorts. Umpf. Ummppff!

  Not the slightest sign of resonance or echo.

  Total silence.

  It is as silent as in a grave.

  Uuuuuummmmmmpppppfffff!

  Astra looks at her watch. Where has he got to? He said that he was on his way to Winchester’s. The message was recorded at 11.32 and now it is a quarter to five. He ought to have been here ages ago. She phones him once more, but his phone is still turned off. Weird. Perhaps she ought to call in at his place on her way home? Check if anything has happened. Perhaps he’s fallen ill? The thought of the manuscript makes her terribly curious. And just think – he stuck to the schedule! She would never have thought that possible when all this started. But it is thanks to her. She took an iron grip fr
om the very first, just as Evita had said. The breathalyser lock was a stroke of genius, nothing less. But where the hell is he? Why doesn’t he answer his phone?

  Many an hour seems to pass. Perhaps days. Titus can’t be sure. No, it can’t be a matter of days, he thinks. He hasn’t pissed his pants yet. But of course he hasn’t drunk anything since he ended up this darkness either.

  How does it work? Do you only get the urge to piss if you drink? Or must you always piss? What do you piss out if you haven’t drunk anything? He only has a slight urge to go, so presumably it has been only a matter of hours. Yes, that must be the case.

  Astra rings the doorbell for a long time. Titus doesn’t answer. She peeps in through the letterbox. Empty. No movement at all. She rings the neighbour’s doorbell to find out if he or she knows anything about Titus. Nobody answers there either. She peeps in through the neighbour’s letterbox too. There is a pile of advertising leaflets on the floor, the sort that comes with the post. Everyone gets it nowadays, it makes no difference if you have stuck up a sign: No advertising, please! The neighbour must be still at work, Astra thinks. If Titus got a similar pile of leaflets too, then it must mean that he left after the postman had been round. They usually come at about eleven, surely? So he must have left his flat just before lunch, which is round about the time he had phoned her on his mobile.

  But where had he gone off to? Why doesn’t he answer?

  Titus is worn out. None of his ideas lead him anywhere. Everything just goes round and round in his head. It is absolutely loathsome to sit tightly taped to a kitchen chair in the pitch dark. Now and then he falls asleep for a while, and it is almost a nice feeling when that happens. Body and brain must rest a while.

  Titus dreams that Lenny tips his chair on to a trolley. He is wheeled out through a little door. It is dark, it is night. The place is surrounded by dark trees, an awful lot of trees. Forest. There is a dull rustling. He is in the countryside, what a nightmare.