Astra smiles and eases on the throttle. They are almost there now. They’re going to have all of Stora Nassa to themselves.
She lets the boat slowly glide in towards the old jetty on Stora Bonden. This is the largest island among the old crown harbours where the fishermen used to spend the night during the most intensive herring-fishing periods. The first settlers came as early as the eighteenth century, and at most about ten poor families lived in small cottages on the cliff. Nowadays the whole area is a nature reserve and a protected area for birds. But when the nestlings have flown their way at the end of the summer, then you can visit again.
Astra turns the engine off, steps nimbly over the windscreen and jumps out onto the jetty. With just one hand she quickly secures the boat fore and aft. The silence that arises when you have turned off an engine in the outer skerries is paralysing.
‘Now do you see?’ she whispers with pretended irritation out of the corner of her mouth. ‘I’m not as unfamiliar with boats as you seem to think.’
‘Sorry,’ he laughs, and gets up on unsteady legs to try to go ashore. ‘Sorry, but I have only written a novel. It isn’t the truth.’
She stretches out her hand and helps him off the boat.
‘Get a look at this. It is a paradise.’
After having meandered around on small paths among stonecrops and heather amidst the cracks in the rocky surfaces, they sit down at the highest point on the island and look out across the bays to the west. Nassa is so far out that even the inner skerries disappear beyond the horizon. Far, far away in the glitter above thousands of invisible islands lies Stockholm. A white-tailed eagle hovers like a wide plank high up in the sky searching for shoals of fish in the evening sun which is slowly crawling down from the sky. Soon darkness will come, soon the last battle will be fought.
Astra strokes her hands over her thighs to straighten the creases in her short summer dress. She then pulls out a couple of glasses from a little cooler in padded beaver nylon, and a beautiful bottle which looks deliciously chilled with its drops of condensation running along the narrow body.
‘May I tempt you with this summer’s last glass of rosé?’ says Astra, and unscrews the bottle.
‘I need to talk to you,’ he says and lifts a strand of orange hair off his face. He looks worried. Pained.
‘Yes, that’s what we’re going to do. We shall celebrate and talk. That’s why we are here.’
‘I… I want to talk about the book,’ he says quietly in his leisurely northern accent.
‘Yes, Titus. That’s why we are doing this. We’re going to celebrate that you have finished editing the manuscript. And talk. About the book.’
Titus’ dark velvet eyes don’t look as if they are in a party mood. They are sad.
‘I don’t know, Astra. It feels as if I’ve committed suicide.’
‘What are you saying? Why?’
‘Well, using their names…’ he says and scratches his neck inside the black collar. He twists his loose hair half a turn and lets it fall onto his back.
‘Yes?’
‘I don’t know… is it really going to work? People know who I am and what I stand for. Is it wise to do this? I’m smashing everything with this book. Besides, Eddie X is going to go bananas.’
Astra puts her hand on his arm.
‘Now listen to me. It isn’t the end of the world if he does. Who cares about bald old men in batik clothes? Don’t bother about him, we must think about what is best for you now.’
‘But what I mean is: is it really necessary? Do I go too far? Why can’t I be the young guy in the book too? Perhaps all it needs is to change clothes on the characters? I’ve only got to “find and replace” and change all the names in the manuscript to make it all more credible. Not quite so utterly barmy.’
‘You know what I’ve said all the time. Poetry and collections of short stories are a cul-de-sac, Titus. You are young. You have a large public who love what you do. This is your debut as a novelist and you must be prepared to take a few risks. You are an artiste, remember that. Besides, it was your idea from the very first. It was you who wanted to explore more sides of yourself.’
‘Yes, I know. But it’s all so bloody weird… will the readers really understand? There are so bloody many meta-levels… It is almost as if I myself get confused. An author writes a book about an author who in actual fact is another author. And that author is also writing a book and competing with another author who wants to write the same book. And the last author is really the first author. That is… me. Or however it is. What the hell do I mean anyway?’
‘But Titus, what is the alternative? That we use a pseudonym instead of your real name? That would be even worse: an author pseudonym writes a book about an author who is writing a book about an author who is competing against another author. And the last two both think they have written the best book in the world. No, it wouldn’t make it any better.’
‘Don’t you think… But… We could think about it, couldn’t we?’
Astra raises her hand as a stop sign. A serious wrinkle appears between her eyebrows.
‘No! Remember one thing, Titus. You already have the best readers in the world. They love to be misled. And now you’ll get lots more. You have invited them to join you on a fun journey, but you are not their cicerone. They themselves are the ones who create their experiences and memories. I think that they like that everything isn’t fixed like the worst sort of package holiday. I promise you. Besides, most of them are going to laugh maliciously when they think about Eddie X in reality. Sitting there half-sloshed in former colourful silk rags and sitting in a rage at his regular table at the Association Bar. Talking about Baroque in Their Blood from ’95 and similar bombastic nonsense. Trying to pick up cultured ladies and supporting himself by reading weird old books at pop festivals. No, in the long term I think you’re doing him a service. Perhaps he might pull himself together and write a good book again.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘Well think and think…’ says Astra, a big smile appearing on her face. ‘You can use your imagination a bit, can’t you? Makes life a bit more fun.’
They remain sitting a while on the rocks, talking about the book and about each other and following the course of a belated flock of geese flying in plough formation over the archipelago. Astra puts her arm around Titus. They watch the sun against the horizon. Titus buries his cheeks in Astra’s hair. It turns to evening.
‘Now it’s time to gorge ourselves on prawns!’
Astra comes up out of the cabin with a large bowl of fresh prawns. They have put up a little camping table in the middle of the cockpit, laid with china plates, oil lamps and linen serviettes, fresh bread, wine and aioli.
‘Ho, ho, wonderful!’ laughs Titus. ‘When fiction turns into reality, so to speak!’
‘You can bet on that,’ says Astra and blinks her long lashes a couple of times. ‘This is only the beginning.’
They eat the prawns and throw the shells into the sea one by one. Small and medium-size fish come and gobble those delicacies in the dark water and disappear down among the clumps of seaweed with their catch.
‘Cheers to the summer!’ says Astra and raises her crystal glass.
‘Cheers to the autumn! That is nice too,’ Titus responds.
‘Cheers to the book and because it is finished!’
‘Cheers to the publisher!’
They clink their glasses together.
‘So how does it feel now?’ asks Astra with eyes that encourage total honesty.