‘My friends!’ Eddie hisses with his leisurely northern accent, his mouth sensually close to the microphone. His white teeth glow in the spotlight. ‘Dear festival visitors. Look and listen! He is a living legend. The tabloids wrote about his love affairs before most of us were even born. He has written a dozen or so novels about darkness, treachery and evil sudden death. He has a reserved table at the Association Bar. He even has a drink named after him. Now he has come onto our stage and his pupils and senses are wide open! A warm applause for: Titus Jensen – the Great Author!’
The public starts to laugh straight away. Many of them have seen this spectacle before. A couple of extra spotlights are turned on and Titus Jensen blinks in the white light. He sees the public as if in a mist and he hears some bass tones from the rock stage in the neighbouring marquee. He tries to sway in time with the beat. Yes, of course. Now he remembers. He is in the Poetry Slam tent at a rock festival. What happened to the afternoon? Titus can only remember sitting talking with Eddie X backstage. They drank a little, had some fun together and talked about life, literature and love. Then he got high on some unknown drug from one of Eddie’s mates in the band. Everything went blank. Well, blank is perhaps not the right word. Everything started spinning like crazy inside his head and suddenly he was covered in black rat fur and was running around inside a fluorescent hamster wheel. He ran and ran, but his thoughts stood completely still. It felt as if several weeks passed while his thoughts only moved forward by one single letter. Then all the lights went out.
But now they have evidently been turned on again, thinks Titus, blinking against the light.
A short roll of the drums announces that it is time. He feels how the presence of the public pushes away the last remnants of his hallucinations and fills him with energy. He picks up the book Eddie has given him, and reads the title loudly and dramatically with his broken bass voice:
‘The Diseases of the Swedish Monarchs, by Wolfram Koch. From Gustavus Vasa to Gustav V.’
Many members of the audience are already convulsed with laughter. It is senselessly funny entertainment to watch Titus Jensen read weird old books as if they were Greek tragedies. He reads in such an infernally theatrical manner that he could wake the dead.
Titus thumbs through the book at random. Then he catches sight of a picture of the remarkable Karl XIII and makes that his first stop. With a tremble in his voice, he reads a passage:
‘It was now apparent that the end was near, and every arrangement was made to quickly promulgate the expected demise. The palace was full of people of all classes who had gathered there to acquire news of the sovereign’s condition, bulletins having been posted in the Hall of Pillars. In the last evenings before the sovereign’s demise, those people who were waiting there, known as well as unknown persons, were served tea and punch. Only on the final night did an atmosphere of calm evidently pertain, as court functionaries, bodyguards and other royal servants, in a state of exhaustion, fell asleep on sofas and chairs.’
Titus spits out the last words in a frenzy. He pauses for effect and looks out over the audience. Many of them are bent double with laughter and have tears in their eyes. They adore him. So he continues his recitation.
‘From the autopsy report: the most interesting findings concern the brain and the membranes of the brain which suggest a diffuse senile brain atrophy and senile enlarged leptomeninges. The symptomatology and the autopsy findings indicate minimal old malaceae caused by arteriosclerotic vascular disease in the basal ganglia and pons, thus typical status desintegrationis. The discovery in the lungs ought perhaps to be interpreted as a sign of pneumonia with abscesses. The heart’s normal condition appears remarkable, while the thickening of the artery walls with fatty matter seems natural.’
A certain calm spreads among the audience. Occasional giggles. Titus realises that he must find more populist sections to sustain audience interest. But it isn’t so damned easy with this hopelessly old book! He thumbs through feverishly. Could this be something? He adopts a pose with his legs apart and puts one hand behind his back. The other hand lifts the book in a sort of gesture of homage. He is Hamlet and the book is a skull.
‘About Gustav V!’ Titus declaims theatrically. ‘I begin with a quote: “The practising of tennis never gives rise to physical injuries. On the contrary, it liberates the body’s vigour and vitality in a wonderful manner. The same could hardly be said about a boxing or wrestling match.” Well, the King’s estimation of tennis as a safe sport was perhaps somewhat exaggerated, which he himself on certain occasions was to experience. But he wished to make light of such interludes. Some tennis accidents may however be mentioned here. The most serious accident on the tennis court affected the King in 1927 when he slipped on a ball and hit the back of his head on the floor and dislocated a foot. He was carried out unconscious and remained in that condition a long time. One of the players manipulated the joint back into position before the arrival of C.C. Olin, the royal physician at the time. Mr G., as the King was called when he played tennis, was shocked by the fall and the pain. When he came to his senses he demanded – against the wishes of his doctor – to be taken to the palace at Drottningholm. In the evening he telephoned his fellow players and thanked them for their help, adding that although his foot was very painful he did feel better after a hand of bridge – as we know, King Gustav was a passionate bridge player. The dislocation did, however, prevent him from playing tennis for no less than three months!’
Titus gesticulates and waves his arms wildly while he reads the text. The cheers from the young people in the marquee know no bounds. He shifts his voice up a gear to imply the greatest possible drama.
‘On one occasion, during the summer tennis season in Båstad in 1932, the King slipped on an old cement court which rain had made slippery, and fell suddenly backwards. He coiled himself up in the fall so he didn’t hit his neck but nevertheless took a nasty blow and grazed his legs and hands. The royal physician Hjalmar Casserman, who was present, was afraid that the neck of the femur of his majesty’s thigh had been damaged but when he wanted to examine the King, he was told that there was nothing wrong with his leg. But abscesses developed on his hand, which didn’t, however, spoil his joy in playing tennis!’
Now the audience is jumping up and down in step on the earthen floor. They shout and laugh. This whets Titus’ appetite and his eye catches details in the text that seem all the crazier. He delivers a lively declamation about Gustavus Vasa’s diarrhoea and vomiting on his deathbed, and about Erik XIV’s severe schizophrenia after his sojourn in prison. With irrepressible temperament he recounts how Sigismund lost the ability to speak and tells of Karl XI’s distended gall bladder.
He rounds off with a preposterous description of Adolf Fredrik’s never-ending spa visits to drink the waters, and how his furious vomiting led to even more spa visits which finally threatened to ruin the economy of the entire kingdom.
‘…but the mud treatment of the King’s head gave good results and Adolf Fredrik no longer needed to change serviettes and night cap twice a night!’
Applause and whistling. It seems to Titus that his entire performance is nothing short of a great success. He parodies a courtier and bows deeply sweeping his arm.
‘RE-PUB-LIC! RE-PUB-LIC! RE-PUB-LIC!’ the audience start shouting in chorus, clapping their hands in time.
Titus Jensen looks around in confusion. Republic? What has that got to do with his artistry? But he bows yet again and leaves the stage just as Eddie enters. When they pass each other, Eddie whispers in Titus’ ear to meet him for a drink or two after his own performance.