‘Yeah?’
‘What exactly are you and Eddie up to?’
Lenny stops in his tracks and looks stupidly at Titus.
‘What, how do you know?’
‘I just know. But why?’
‘I don’t know. Eddie wanted to. It wasn’t me.’
‘Come off it. I saw you running away!’
‘Yeah, well, I mean, it was me who was there. But it was Eddie’s idea.’
‘But why? What does he want?’
‘I can’t tell you, Titus. It’s impossible, I’ve promised Eddie. But I was only inside your place a few minutes. I didn’t take a single thing, I promise. I just looked.’
‘For what? Tell me what you are up to! Admit that you are spying on me!’
‘I can’t say any more. Stop it now. Stop it! You are the one who must talk. Now you must talk. I have promised. Please. Talk now!’
And Lenny continues the same pestering that he has been busy with all evening. What is Titus writing? How far has he got? Will it be good? What is it about? How many people know what he is writing?
Lenny goes on and on about it, but doesn’t hear that Titus never answers any of his questions. There is just Lenny’s monotonous one-way nagging, completely without interactivity. This is a sort of admittance of guilt too, Titus thinks, otherwise why would he keep on with these stubborn efforts to try to discover what Titus is writing? Yes, there is absolutely no doubt about it: Eddie and Lenny are in the midst of a gigantic coup. They seem to think that they can steal the copyright to a literary work. Idiots. Nutters. Small fry. Don’t they realise that they’re too late? He has virtually finished. It is just a matter of days and then it will start: the long success story of The Best Book in the World, with Titus Jensen on the cover.
He looks at Lenny. Suddenly it strikes him.
Lenny is not stuttering.
Lenny is not twitching.
He is not even swearing.
He has… recovered?
CHAPTER 31
The Law of Happy Endings
There is a cup of steaming-hot herbal tea beside Titus’ computer. He has slept a long time and now feels rested and strong. He isn’t afraid of Eddie X any longer. Eddie and Lenny are just a couple of clowns, they can’t get at him now. It’s too late. When this summer started, he was a pathetic wretch. Now he is strong. And he is going to retain that strength.
The autumn sun sits lower and lower in the sky each day. A few rays find their way across the rooftops and into Titus’ dark flat. He blows into the breathalyser lock and the computer welcomes him in just as friendly a tone as usuaclass="underline"
Hello Titus! According to my calculations you only have three pages left to complete your manuscript. Contact your publisher as soon as you have finished. Congratulations!
Titus feels as if he has been reincarnated. He is going to complete the project of his life. A crazy project in which he has had 250 pages to pack in lots of handy facts and practical lists, and a knockout blow to the jaw of hair-raising tension. A straight right from the left side of his brain and a left hook from the right.
Before he writes the final chapter, he must make a list of the ten best revolutionary songs in the world, which he will let Chief Inspector Håkan Rink have as his ‘Revolt’ playlist on his iPod: Titus takes a deep breath. Now he is getting close.
There is really only one thing that publishers, manuscript experts and reviewers all agree upon: a book must have an end that gives rise to hope. Even if the story is dark and dismal, there must be a grain of a happy ending that gives nourishment to life’s optimists. If a book doesn’t have a happy ending, it will die a natural death. Un-reviewed, un-read and un-sold. The Law of Happy Endings is an ancient truth that can’t be challenged.
The Revolution Will Not Be Televised || Clampdown
Imagine || Eve of Destruction
Get Up, Stand Up || Blowin’ in the Wind
We Shall Overcome || Minority
Last Night I Had the Strangest Dream || Diamonds From Sierra Leone
But Titus refuses to deviate from his perfect sense of pitch. He has decided to turn his back on all the experts who think they can judge his work of art better than he can himself. He will leave it to the readers to decide what is consolation or despair. Over-explicitness kills and he is certainly no murderer: quite the contrary. Hope is strong and distinct in all the lists, recipes, tips and facts that run through the book. He hands out lots of matchboxes, but never pokes his finger in the reader’s tummy. It is up to each and every reader to decide which candles they will light in their lives. But if you follow all the advice there is every possibility of becoming a complete human being, of that he is certain. It is, after all, The Best Book in the World that he has written. The actual plot around Chief Inspector Håkan Rink and Serial Salvador, however, has an uncompromising brutality to it. Because that is what life looks like too.
He who has seen the darkness, will be the first to see the light, he thinks.
Oh, how he delights in his own ability to express himself. Today, he is really good.
He has long since abandoned the idea of letting his personal vendetta against Eddie X blemish the end of the book. He has come further in his personal development. For a long time, revenge provided good motivation to write, but now he chooses to stand above the instinctive desire to defend himself. He is hardly aware any more that Serial Salvador has borrowed characteristics from Eddie X.
The Best Book in the World is not a meta project, disguising itself as a story about another story with complicated and obscure subtexts. The Best Book in the World is a simply narrated and well put-together reference work about life. It is exciting, useful and helps to develop the reader’s personality. And yet the whole work rises above the level of everyday life and reality. Together, the disparate texts form a pattern. They become – literature.
I have bared my soul, thinks Titus. I have turned the other cheek. Now I am empty.
The tears splash onto the keyboard while he slowly and solemnly types the very last chapter.
The big Entrepreneurs’ Gala is to be broadcast live as usual on TV4.
Cool as ice, Håkan Rink counted on the information being correct. The source seemed highly credible even though the tip-off came late.
Serial Salvador would come to the Entrepreneurs’ Gala. He had purchased an unnumbered ticket the day before the gala. Unfortunately that meant that he couldn’t be checked against a list. The only thing the police knew at the moment was that he would most likely sit somewhere on the ten rearmost rows which were not reserved. Also, the old description was no longer valid. He had altered his appearance again. But the source was absolutely certain that his information was correct. You couldn’t mistake those eyes. Brown velvet.
There had been little time but the Stockholm police force had managed to arrange it all. The effort was planned down to the tiniest detail. Rink’s men were posted on every second row in a zigzag pattern. When they had identified him, they could nab him easily. As soon as the prizes had been awarded and the cameras turned off, that would be the end.
Håkan Rink himself was invited to present the prize in the most prestigious category – Entrepreneur of the Year. He had considered whether it was suitable to mix his roles. On the one hand, a hard-working detective chief inspector who needed peace and quiet to be able to focus on his task; on the other, a public security alibi from a pressured police force which was forced to deliver very soon. The sand in the hour-glass of patience was running out. But the triumph of being able to stand on the stage and perhaps even establish eye-contact with Serial Salvador moments before he would be rendered harmless had got the better of him. It would go well. It usually did.