‘… but me, I look best nude.’
Doctor Rolf has never done the cocktail-party thing at a book fair before. Nor have Lenny and Malin. They think it’s great and drink eagerly of everything that is served. Astra, who has had her hands full with greeting authors and booksellers, comes by to exchange a few words.
‘How are you getting on? Are you getting something to drink?’
‘It’s all great!’ bellows Doctor Rolf. ‘Tell me, are there lots of celebrities here?’
‘One or two,’ says Astra and looks around. ‘Over there, for example, that’s Pablo Blanco, the Mexican bestseller-author who writes self-help novels.’
She points towards a man, short of stature and wearing a black polo sweater. He has a little tuft of hair on his neck, the sort that the boldest little boys in day nursery tend to have nowadays, the ones who push little girls into the sand pit and have dads who play ice hockey. Standing a few feet behind him is a grumpy woman with a flowery old-lady dress. Despite it probably having cost a packet, it looks about as good on her as a moth-eaten curtain in an old barn. She is Blando’s agent and manager. A number of pretty young girls have flocked around Blando. He has sold millions of books and his celebrity status is magnetic.
‘The grey mouse behind him is his agent, Veronica Fuentes,’ Astra goes on. ‘The Bitch in Barcelona, that’s what they call her in the branch.’
‘What!’ yells Doctor Rolf. His eyes grow dark. ‘Is that Pablo Blando? Fucking… hell.’
Astra looks at him, surprised.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘That bastard has destroyed many lives,’ hisses Doctor Rolf. ‘I’ve had loads of patients on account of him. First they read his books and then they think they have found the “Path of Life”. The worst book is The Maker of Gold. They read that and think they have seen the light. However, slowly but surely they bury themselves in gloomy pondering, start to imagine that they need to find more happiness in their lives. And in searching for that, they lose their foothold. And when the happiness doesn’t materialise and liberate them, then they are going to feel unhappy, aren’t they? They start looking for what’s wrong with them, for symptoms. They read even more books about happiness, but no happiness results. In the end, they have acquired an affliction and they must somehow make their way out of that. If only they can become healthy again, then they will find happiness. But in actual fact they have never been ill! No, fucking hell! Years of multi-therapy can be necessary to make them whole again!’
‘Oops, I had no idea…’
‘No, nobody wants to admit it,’ hisses Doctor Rolf aggressively. ‘Everyone keeps mum about it. But lots of the people who read his books would feel a lot better if they read the telephone directory instead and didn’t think so damned much. That is the truth! No, fucking hell, I am so damned tired of all the imaginary invalids who have read The Maker of Gold, I could throw up!’
‘You don’t say…?’ Astra responds cautiously.
She does of course work for the publishing house which publishes all of Blando’s books. They earn pots of money from them, and don’t have any plans at all to stop. And from what she can tell, Doctor Rolf’s intellectual wanderings are not exactly ‘mainstream’. Has she ever heard of multi-therapy making anybody happy? Perhaps best to manoeuvre her way out of this subject. Ralf Rolf seems to be something of a powder keg. Astra adopts a diplomatic smile.
‘You will have to tell him in person what you think.’
‘Yep, um. Perhaps,’ Doctor Rolf flares up. ‘Good idea…’
Cocktail parties are the mother of all business deals.
Astra introduces one foreign publisher after the other to Titus. They have all heard of his story and now they want to say hello to the miracle from the earth cellar.
A distinguished elderly gentleman with an American accent introduces himself as Collin Harper. He claims that he wants to publish The Best Book in the World in fourteen countries. He has heard that it is ‘amazing’.
Titus Jensen gives a slight bow.
Astra Larsson a little curtsy.
Evita Winchester laughs out loud.
After the drinks party, it is banquet time. The very most prominent guests at the book fair have been invited. A huge swathe of fair delegates gathers in the main hall ready to take the large escalator up to the party. Evita has quickly succeeded in conjuring forth tickets for all of Astra’s fellow travellers. The singular group moves slowly towards the party like a little tail after the other guests. One by one they step onto the escalator.
Astra and Christer Hermansson go first. They are laughing and seem to be enjoying each other’s company.
Then come Lenny and Malin. They are tightly entwined and can hardly believe this is true. Astra wants to publish a book about the story of Lenny’s life. Tourette’s and Me – Not an Easy Journey, by Lenny Rolf. She has offered him a juicy advance.
Then comes Doctor Rolf. He sneaks a grim look at the fairytale old man Pablo Blando who is a bit higher up on the escalator together with two young girls and his grumpy agent. Blando gesticulates and kisses the girls on their cheeks and hands. Doctor Rolf rolls up the arms of his white coat and mutters to himself with clenched teeth: ‘I’m having an old friend for dinner.’
Last in the escalator come Evita and Titus, arm in arm. Flashes of lightning from her green eyes. He smiles roguishly with his blue eyes.
For a few seconds Titus turns his back on those who are above him on the escalator. He looks out across the wonderful mass of adventures and stories down in the hall. He loves what he sees. Fantasies, he thinks, mere fancies and fantasies. Dreams and illusions.
Titus is on the way up. He stretches out his arms. Extends all his fingers widely. Bends his neck backwards and closes his eyes. Fills his lungs. He is just about to shout out as loudly as he can. But he changes his mind and instead breaks into the biggest smile in the world. With a calm soul he whispers to his new-found best friend.
Better to be obsessed than dependent.
PART III
In Which Reality Catches up with the Author and His Readers
Sometimes the final battle is not fought until as late as early October.
Walls of yellow and red foliage rise up among the trees while the high summer winds try to trick the course of nature. But even though the sun is warming, it is nevertheless too low in the sky to allow the leaves to reflect any green life. The struggle is doomed beforehand. The Indian summer has so far never beaten the autumn, but it does at least take its final breaths with a warm smile on its lips. To die a hero’s death as a proud Indian, exhausted and in full warpaint, gives hope of reincarnation.
The cliffs, air and water. The long summer has allowed the elements of the archipelago to reach the same warm temperature. There are no contradictions and no strong winds blow up. The bays between Stockholm and the outer skerries have a mirror-like surface reminiscent of newly washed shop windows.
Astra’s long narrow vessel cuts through the water with a whisper. Her hair is collected in a ponytail which sways in time with the movements of the boat. She holds the tiller in one hand, and has her other hand’s index finger on the nautical chart. She has turned the GPS off. Navigating without electronics is freedom. Making way slowly with a super-fast boat is relaxation.
She glances behind her to see how her passenger is managing. He is sitting right at the back on the leather-clad cushions on the stern thwart. His arms outstretched and his hands with a firm grip on both the port and starboard railings. His shirt is unbuttoned almost down to his navel. His taut chest is brown and newly shaved, with a shiny glow. His long black hair waves in the air in keeping with the proud Swedish flag in the stern. A few dyed strands decorate his hair, rather like speed stripes. He is the very image of a handsome young man.