‘GOOD – BYE – FABIAN – NADERSSON!’
Astra ends the call and they all burst out laughing. There is nothing so liberating as when a telephone seller says goodbye.
They laugh and smile all the way to Gothenburg.
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 Söze. 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 san
d 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? Fucking… 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, fucking 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, fucking 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.
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