Now he wondered if the gift had deserted him. Or maybe it was Alice’s bitterness that lay like a cloud over the house and blocked the flow. After Jan-Erik had moved to the States she had become even more difficult to be around. It was as though the air itself was contaminated by her presence, which halted all creativity. It had contributed to his decision to say yes to travelling this autumn. The opportunity to breathe a little fresh air.
Despite his loss of creative power the promoters wanted him to close the evening. He felt neither joy nor pride. He hid behind old achievements, and it gave him as little satisfaction as the memory of a sandwich when he was hungry. Writing was what he lived for, and without it he was nothing. To lap up admiration from a stage only made him uncomfortable, as if the audience were secretly peeking at him through a keyhole.
‘You’re on in ten minutes.’
The evening’s organiser left the room and only the authors remained. He had known Torgny for some time, while the other two were strangers, one a first-time novelist and the other a crime writer. The latter had apparently sold a good number of books, although it was incomprehensible to Axel that people read such drivel.
Torgny reached out his hand and grabbed the book that Axel had on his lap, eyeing it as if it might divulge a secret.
‘Oh, that’s right, you haven’t published a new novel this year. This one’s two years old, isn’t it?’
He turned the book over.
‘So you’re going to read from this one, I suppose, since you won’t say anything about your writing, as usual.’
He laughed but his taunt was clear to everyone in the room.
‘Yes, I thought I’d read a few selected passages.’
‘How’s your new one going, then? Or maybe you can’t tell me about it because then you’d have to shoot me.’
He cast a glance at the two listeners in the room who were obviously amused by this exchange, and by Torgny’s disrespectful tone towards the famously shy author. Axel was aware of his reputation but had no intention of apologising for taking his creativity seriously. There were plenty of buffoons like Torgny, never missing a chance to draw attention to themselves. He came to visit sometimes, always without an invitation and always with a bottle in his pocket. Sometimes the visits would amuse Axel as a welcome break in the daily grind, but often he found them simply tiresome. They came from a similar background; both had made the escape from poor working-class homes. He suspected that Torgny’s visits were prompted more by curiosity and a desire to stay up to date. With the starting blocks in the same place it was possible to pick a winner, and the race was always on. Axel knew very well that Torgny’s indulgent friendship was feigned, since Axel was several lengths ahead in the race. His name had even been mentioned in connection with the Nobel Prize. The fact that he had not yet been elected to the Swedish Academy was remarkable and much discussed, and not merely an omission that was magnified by his own offended look.
‘It’s going well, very well in fact. I just don’t want to let go of it before it’s done, so I’ll hold onto it a bit longer and polish it up. Nobody wants to publish a book that’s worse than the last.’
Torgny’s latest novel had received bad reviews in the main papers. Axel had been somewhat amused by the sarcastic pieces.
Torgny looked at the clock.
‘I think it’s about time to go out.’
Axel remained seated in his chair. ‘Quite right. You’re supposed to lead off, aren’t you?’
Torgny smiled, winked and raised his hand. He pointed his finger like a pistol barrel and aimed it at Axel. At least he had a sense of humour.
The performance, if that was the right word for the evening’s event, was neither worse nor better than expected. Torgny’s opening act contained many funny lines, and one burst of laughter from the audience followed another. He told them frankly about the agonies of writing and his sources of inspiration, ending with a reading. Axel’s discomfort grew. The book in his hand seemed more irrelevant with each minute that passed, as if someone else had written it and he’d been sent to defend it. Now it was his turn to take the stage. He listened to the lyrical introduction and tried to step into the role of celebrated author.
‘… who with his unique narrative voice and his shimmering prose has given us so many magical reading experiences. With the clarity of his vision into the depths of the human soul he leads us in a search for atonement in a hard and inhumane world. In the contrast between light and darkness his characters assume razor-sharp contours, and their fates continue to enthrall us. Tonight it is with great pleasure that I have the honour of introducing Axel Ragnerfeldt.’
He didn’t recognise the man described. Only at his desk in the moment of inspiration was he this person. Not here and now, trembling in the wings, ready to show himself to the masses. Unsteadily he walked out on stage. The book in his hands was shaking, and he wondered if it was noticeable. A sea of expectant faces. Well-educated, intellectual, well-read.
Engineers.
At any moment he could be unmasked. He quickly turned to the first page and began to read. He read and read until his time was up and he was free to go. The audience’s thunderous applause. Like a wave it crashed over him, on and on. The master of ceremonies standing next to him seemed pleased at the evening’s success. Some in the audience stood up, pulling others with them, and there he was, Axel Andersson – now Ragnerfeldt – esteemed, celebrated, idolised by a standing ovation.
And it gave him nothing.
Nothing.
It was time for book signing; Axel and Torgny walked out to the foyer. There was no doubt which table was Axel’s; the queue was already quite long. A few fans were standing at the other authors’ tables, several more at the crime writer’s, but it was obvious that Torgny had no intention of showing his envy. After a pat on Axel’s back he went to his own table.
‘Just say the word if you need any help.’
Axel sat down and began signing books. Several of his older titles were on the table, and some of them ran out before the end of the queue. What fantastic books you write, said the strangers standing before him. Time after time: how good you are. It made him feel worse each time the words were repeated. What did they know about what was good? he wanted to ask. What is it that’s so good about my novels, can you tell me that? Anyone able to describe it would have the right to say the words, he thought, as he wrote his name in yet another book that would be read by yet another ignoramus. Someone who had no idea of the effort that lay behind the book. Who would rush through the pages without devoting the same care and time to each sentence as he had done.