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.