‘F-fuck, bloody great. I Adore Love is brilliant. Was that the time he read the whole book?’
‘I suppose so. It took half the night. He was slower in those days, sort of more northern and reflective. It was as if people were in a trance. It sounds like a cliché but I really think that the world gets a little better with nights like that. Even I felt happy for hours afterwards.’
‘What do you mean “even you”? Aren’t you human like everybody else?’ Lenny wonders, and takes a big mouthful of his mega-cake. Or rather, mega-muffin.
‘Sure, but mass experiences are a hell of a problem for me. I become suspicious, I think that somebody is trying to sell happiness to me. You can’t buy happiness. You can’t give it away either. Happiness is, if anything, an absurd way of regarding the world. I mean, sometimes happiness occurs, even for me. But it is not because I have hunted for it, rather the opposite. It is not until you stop hunting it all the time that it can come. At the same time, it is almost impossible not to try to hunt happiness. Hunting happiness is probably the most human activity one can imagine. Animals can be satisfied without happiness, but not us humans. We need more, always something more.’
‘M-me, I’m not so fucking sure about that. Are you hunting happiness just because you go to a concert reading by Eddie X? Can’t you just take it easy and have a cosy time? Just be, sort of, fairly content?’
‘Yeah, of course. And that’s what I mean. The world gets a bit better from that sort of thing. But if it is happiness or not, that I don’t know.’
‘Does it make any difference what you call it?’ says Lenny, and blows with the corner of his mouth: pfff, pfff.
‘No, you’re probably right about that.’
Titus glances at the cultured ladies. Are they still there? Yes, they are, they’re sitting and breaking small pieces of their enormous biscuits, popping the crumbs into their mouths like beautiful small birds. Giggling and glistening with their nice teeth. They look rather expensive from a distance, with their highlighted hair in fancy coiffures. Something has definitely happened with cultured ladies in recent years, Titus thinks. Just a few years ago, most of them had hair that was dyed red, preferably with an uncombed look and set up with a colourful hair ribbon. Sensible shoes and multi-coloured clothes. Now they are more discreet and stylistically pure: high heels and tight skirts, pretty as models, almost regardless of age. You can no longer distinguish between culture girls and upper class chicks. That sort of hairdo must cost at least a thousand kronor. What has happened? Have wages gone up in the culture sector? Not in Titus’ sector at any rate, he is quite certain about that. Although when he thinks about all the glass and brushed steel he saw in Astra’s flat he becomes uncertain again. She is pretty in that way too. Not sexy pretty, but expensive pretty. Fuck, I’m way behind, he thinks. I want money too! But not so that I can look like an expensive upper-class chap. I just want the freedom.
‘And what are you working on at the moment then?’ Lenny wonders. ‘A new book under way? I’ve read Storm Clouds and Treacherous Charades. Quite a lot of pain and blackness. Perfect reads for a grim week on Gotland in November. Is there more in that style coming along? Pfff. Pfff.’
Titus is taken unawares by the question even though over the years he has learnt to never talk about a book he is working on. It gives the whole project bad karma. Expectations are every author’s worst enemy, so you should never try to describe a book yourself. Not when it’s finished, and even less before it has been written. When the book is ready, it must manage on its own.
‘Yeah, well, I’m busy working on a synopsis for some things. Talking a bit to the publishers and that.’
Titus feels uncomfortable. This is no good. It is simply crazy to be sitting drinking coffee with a guy who sits there making small weird blowing sounds all the time. He ought to be working instead of wasting time. The days pass and he must actually catch a mad serial killer. And bearing in mind that he has never been anywhere near writing a crime novel, it’s high time to get on with it.
‘W-will it be g-good, then?’ Lenny asks.
‘What?’
‘Y-your b-book, of course.’
‘Book? Oh, we’ll see how it turns out,’ says Titus and tries to prevent his eyes from going all over the place. He doesn’t like Lenny prying about the book. Which book? Titus’ book is nothing that is any concern of Lenny’s.
‘You know, Lenny, I must be getting along. Work calls.’
‘Oh my God. You too. I’m so impressed by you all.’
‘Us?’
‘Yes, I only know two authors. And both of you work as if you were possessed, it seems.’
Titus feels that in his solar plexus. What does he mean? Who does he mean?
‘Who else do you mean?’ says Titus slowly although he knows very well who Lenny means.
‘Eddie X. He is working like a madman too. I have hardly seen him since the festival.’
When Titus hears the three syllables of Eddie X’s name, he feels the blood draining away from his head. He is forced to hold the table with both hands so as not to fall off his chair.
‘Oh really… Eddie,’ he says, but silently thinks to himself: fuck, fuck, fuck. Then it’s true, his worst suspicion is confirmed.
‘H-he doesn’t p-poke his nose outside the door. Just works, works, works. Day and night.’
‘With what?’ Titus hears himself asking.
He feels paralysed. If Eddie X has started working on his version of The Best Book in the World, then Titus has been robbed of his victory. People love everything that Eddie touches. Sure, Titus is a living legend too. Respected on the arts pages. Hunted by the gossip press. But Eddie X is much more than that. He is a saint. The day he stops writing poems and starts writing novels, he’ll get millions of readers and become a millionaire without even trying. Titus must know. Have the judge pronounce sentence. What is Eddie working on?
‘H-he says he is working on his summer radio programme. It’s being broadcast next week. But I don’t know, he doesn’t usually take that radio stuff so seriously. It’s the third time he has done the summer programme and he didn’t work especially hard even on the first one. He’s got it all inside his head. He only has to turn on the tap. But, of course, perhaps it takes time to choose the music.’
The beloved Eddie X is slaving away like an animal with a project that is probably going to make him immortal. Meanwhile, the soot-black has-been Titus Jensen is sitting here drinking in a café with a spasmodic blowfish.
If there is any justice at all in this world, then it is high time it starts doing its job.
CHAPTER 12
The ABC Method
Competition is not a whip that usually cracks behind Titus. But when it does finally sing through the air in Titus’ flat, it sends his adrenaline levels sky high.