The Best Book in the World

E
nter
The Author,
stage
left.

Titus Jensen is going to type the first sentence of his new novel. He has been thinking about the wording all morning.

Enter
The Author,
stage left.

Titus can see the man before him. The Great Author, with his salad days far behind him. He has been granted just a few more occasions to bask in the limelight. Why he has suddenly been given the chance to earn a few more kronor from a public reading, the Great Author hasn’t a clue. He hasn’t written a book in ages.

Regrettably, he will not be able to read from one of his own books. No, his only chance to gain appreciation and applause is to grab the book that someone hands him the very second he goes up onto the stage. He is placed in front of a microphone and hardly has time to announce the title before the public bursts out laughing.

They are taking the mickey – that he does know. But in a loving way, he convinces himself. He is close to their hearts and that, at least, is better than sitting at home alone in his pad in Stockholm’s trendy Söder district. Besides, the booze and the drugs are free. He used to be culture. Now he is just a cult.

Not only can Titus see the author before him: he can sense what the man is thinking, what makes him tick, how he feels and what he is going to say from one second to the next.

What name should he give to the man on the stage? Can he win anything by diluting the fiction with a touch of reality? Titus, who is always sincere and revealingly personal on paper, decides to go the whole way. He is going to lend his own name to the man. He must. He is going to show the readers that he has the courage to put his own name to a man with a harsh
and rugged soul. Titus Jensen, that is me, that is him, that is us, Titus thinks. Everything that happens to him happens to me too, in my head. I am the man on the stage. The man with the noose of fate around his neck.

Titus’ fingers hover above the keyboard. He is facing one of his most important choices ever. The idea for the book is brilliant. A tripped-out study of hubris. A meta-novel about freedom and dependence. But how do you start an immortal masterpiece?

Enter
The Author,
stage left.

Does he really need to write more than that? Which ‘outside’ best describes his ‘inside’? Is it important to say that the man is wearing a black shirt, black leather trousers and a black jacket? That his face is marked by years of harsh weather in the Stockholm bars? That his scalp shines with sweat under a crew cut? That he is still fairly handsome, despite all the warning bells relentlessly announcing: ‘This is an unreliable addict, this is an unreliable addict!’?

Must he describe all appearances down to the tiniest detail? Or will that destroy the experience for the reader? Doesn’t the reader have the right to conjure up his own images?

I want to create as many images as there are readers, Titus thinks. It will be just as exclusive as a film that can only be seen by a single spectator, as a painting that can only be viewed by a single person, as a symphony for just one listener.

Enter
The Author,
stage left.

But nevertheless, the reviewer Adrian Throwup had ripped his latest book to pieces, just because the character descriptions were so brief. Which was an absurd criticism considering the almost poetic character of the work. He had written that the ‘artistic pretensions do not reach beyond the first page of the book’. What the hell did that creep know about the stringent demands he, Titus, made of himself? Of the sky-high artistic ambitions he had? He had worked for a whole year on the book. Every single day had been filled to the brim with ‘artistic ambitions’. That bastard of a reviewer, for his part, had only worked for a couple of hours to skim the book and produced that rotten review. Yet that hatchet job had more readers than Titus’ book ever will. It wasn’t that
Titus’ books didn’t sell well. But the newspaper was bought by so horribly many more. Would he ever be able to upset the balance of power?

There is no justice, Titus thinks. I want to sell a lot too. I
shall
sell a lot. With or without a hatchet job from that serial killer Adrian Throwup.

But isn’t Adrian Throwup a part of the public too? What would he like to read?

No, it doesn’t work, Titus thinks. That isn’t my book, isn’t my story. I can’t go on like this. I can’t allow my life to be governed by reviews that stink. I’m an artist. I do what I want. I have absolute pitch. I am the one who chooses my details, not Adrian Throwup.

That’s got it just right.

Now Titus Jensen is going to be unleashed.

E
nter
The Author,
stage left.

Many women have said that white suits him. Women who one moment have promised him eternal love, but the next have slammed the door in his face. So who can blame him now for only wearing black?

A furious bass drum tears at the public’s emotions. The spotlights flash on and off to the beat.

His entrance isn’t the most glamorous that mankind has witnessed. Titus Jensen is wheeled onto the middle of the stage on a luggage trolley. There he is tipped off and left erect in front of a microphone stand. The flashing light is turned off after a while but the drumming continues. The public’s boots and decrepit trainers create a subdued roar as they stamp rhythmically on the earthen floor.

It is dark for a few seconds before a chalk-white beam of light is turned on above Titus. It is narrow and seems to nail him to the stage. Applause and whistling. Everybody knows what is going to happen.

The young and beautiful romantic poet Eddie X is the host for the evening and amid growing cheers he glides up onto the stage in baby-blue silk pyjamas. Eddie is of Latin American extraction and his body language differs quite a lot from that of northern Europeans. It is perfectly natural for him to flash his smile three inches from somebody’s face without worrying about his own or the other person’s breath.

Eddie X caresses Titus Jensen with his dark velvety gaze and gives him, first, a rather too long hug and, then, a book. He slowly pulls a strand of orange hair back from his face and puts it in its proper place with the other coloured streaks among his otherwise long and dead straight black hair. He lowers the microphone down to Titus’ level, and bends over it.

‘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.

Eddie X saunters confidently up to the edge of the stage. He throws his long hair back and grabs the microphone. His Latin behaviour combined with his northern Swedish modesty creates a strong field of energy around him.

‘That was terrrrific! We thank Titus Jensen for these edifying facts about the honourable history of our kingdom. Now we change subject and tempo. I would like to warmly welcome – The Tourettes!’

The Tourettes are Eddie’s sound carpet. A performance from Eddie X and The Tourettes comprises Eddie reading his romantic poetry with incredible ardour and The Tourettes playing improvised and spasmodic music in the background. Lenny, one of Eddie’s closest friends, plays the guitar and is the frontman in the band. Lenny suffers from severe tics. His head gives a sudden jerk now and then and the spasms are transmitted through him in the form of a weird enormous blinking. They run down through his shoulders and on towards his knees. But Lenny has chosen to never see himself as a victim; rather he has transformed his awkward syndrome into an advantage, something of which he is actually proud. Tourette’s syndrome is a part of him whether he likes it or not, just like his nose or the colour of his eyes. His exceptional musicality, together with his condition, has created a music that has no comparison whatsoever with any other art form. Now and then, The Tourettes perform with Lenny as their singer, which is a strange experience since Lenny has a compulsive urge to utter swearwords as soon as he gets stressed. And since a performance is always associated with a certain tension, the only song that Lenny can articulate is a single long stuttering flow of expletives and four-letter words. It is all quite remarkable.

But today it is Eddie X and his texts that are the centrepiece. Eddie is a warm person and he had a great ability to spread this warmth to all those who read or see him. When he takes part in Poetry-Slam gatherings, his performance is always an entertaining combination of stand-up comedy and poetry. He thumbs through the papers in his little plastic folder containing the evening’s poems, which he always takes with him onto the stage. Not that he ever reads from them. He knows his texts off by heart. But the folder gives him security and balance.

‘Dear Friends!’ he starts off with his warm voice groaningly close to the microphone. ‘Have I told you about when I decided to move south to Stockholm?’

The audience starts to hoot and whistle as if Eddie were going to play an old hit. And in some ways that is exactly what he is going to do. Eddie’s poems are incredibly popular. A lot of people have
heard or read them earlier, with or without the spasmodic sound carpet.

Eddie puts his right hand over his heart and starts to read the poem, or the story, about a tender young boy who comes to the big city:

‘
Insecurity
is a vehicle.

‘I am eighteen years old.

‘I’m a learner driver of all sorts of vehicles.

‘I sit behind the wheel on a chair in a bar and watch people circling around.

‘Around me.

‘I see the
insecurity
in the corners of their eyes and wonder how it works.

‘How do they do it?

‘How can they cope?

‘They are rusty, buckled, scratched and painted over.

‘But they hum and purr.

‘Dance, laugh, drink, kiss, live.

‘They are alive!

‘
Insecurity
is a vehicle that can only be driven by flesh and blood.

‘Flesh and blood that hates and loves.

‘And is alive!

‘I finish a glass and wobble out of the depot with a laugh.

‘I’m going on to the playing field.

‘I’m going to take my driving test.

‘Yes,
insecurity
is a vehicle that I can understand.

‘I’m going to be a fantastic driver.

‘I am alive!’

The audience hums with love for Eddie X – the girls especially. Of course, his texts often verge dizzying on the edge of the precipice of the pathetic. But his youth and his ardour excuse everything. A genuine poet has the right to express what he wants, how he wants, whenever he wants. Every society needs poets and just now the audience at the festival in Sweden need the colourful Eddie X more than ever.

Eddie goes on to read ten or so very candid poem-stories about
his life and The Tourettes jerk and shake in the background. There is a great atmosphere in the audience. Everyone is enjoying themselves, hugging each other, laughing and smiling.