Peter Stjernström: The Best Book in the World

‘You know, not all pizza bakers have artichokes in their Quattros.’

‘No? Why not?’

‘I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it. Perhaps they think it’s a tastier pizza without it.’

‘Deism. Deism-baker. God has left the world,’ says Titus thoughtfully and looks into the oven. ‘He is no longer a part of the pizza. He only watches it from a distance.’

The surface of the pizza bubbles a bit. It begins to turn nice and brown. A little part of the rim of the pizza is even burnt. God is certainly still on this pizza. The planet is in flames and he sits like a Buddha in the middle, his arms crossed, without so much as lifting a leaf of his artichoke overcoat. He is seemingly completely unperturbed and still has the same nuance that he had when he first came to the pizza. Why doesn’t he do anything? What’s he waiting for? The Big Bang?

The pizza guy takes the beautiful newly baked Quattro out of the oven. He puts it on a large plate, shakes a little oregano over it and slides it over to Titus.

‘ Bon appétit !’

Titus devoutly tucks into the part with the prawns. But hang on a minute. You must surely start eating a Quattro in the middle of winter, after New Year? The seasons can’t begin in the middle of summer. There must be some damned order, even on a pizza. That means that you must begin about one third of the way into the ham. Then you eat your way clockwise with the mussels, the prawns and the mushrooms, ending with the ham again.

Titus starts afresh. He turns the plate round and puts the knife into the New Year’s night of the ham.

Then he discovers something horrific. The prawns come after the ham! The seasons come in the wrong order! This was bad news, very bad news. But he makes up his mind not to say anything to the pizza guy. Why trouble him with it? He has been friendly and helped Titus to sort out all the difficult Quattro concepts. It would not be right to burden him with this. The pizza costs only thirty-nine kronor after all.

Titus bears his cross and eats the pizza in the correct order, despite the confusion on the plate. It looks a bit strange with the pizza bits on either side of the plate. But what would that matter in a hundred years?

The calories calm him down, and with his self-control secure, he can eat the pizza with a degree of devotion. He thinks that The Best Book in the World and the pizza should have the very best of ingredients. Genuine mozzarella, mushrooms from the market, the day’s catch of prawns and genuine Parma ham. But should it have artichokes or not? Which philosophy would suit the heroic detective best?

Titus is energised by the delicious season-pizza. For once, he has had a reward without poisoning himself with alcohol and nicotine. He is on the right path. He’s going to like this.

There is writing to be done!

Dear Reader,

This book is short. But it contains more than you can imagine. I would ask you to read slowly and with reflection so that you miss as little as possible. The book only contains one repetition and that occurs in the Foreword, here and now: I would ask you to read slowly and with reflection.

Perhaps that is a tad arrogant, Titus thinks. But if the book is to be a success then he must establish a contract with his readers. Everybody involved must be in agreement about making the experience as magnificent as possible. Should he write a special foreword for the reviewers too? Ask them to try to experience something positive instead of wrecking and looking for faults…?

Esteemed reviewer! There are moments in life when we must open ourselves to the world around us. Moments when we need to come to a halt in order to be able to comprehend the significance of what is new. In all epochs, mankind has been afraid of novelties. Think of the many doomsday prophets who have incorrectly proclaimed the end of the world! Think of the many commentators who have criticised technical advances that have later turned out to be faithful tools in the service of mankind! Think of the critics who have dismissed artists and works of art that have later won the genuine love of modern man! And how often has a reviewer won the heart of his public? I only wonder.

Titus soon loses his benevolent intent and launches into an irate harangue for several pages. He gives examples of historical mistakes committed by reviewers, and directs his anger at cowardly publisher’s editors while he is at it. He writes and writes. The embers flame up into burning hatred.

…and now I demand of you, you pathetic clown of a reviewer, that you read this magnificent book with the most open attitude that your withered and poisoned brain is capable of. May you burn in hell if you are incapable of appreciating the magnificence of this innovative work of literature.

Titus leans back contentedly on his office chair and enters the command to preview the text. Four pages of compact lines appear on the screen. A word bomb!

He is forced to swallow a nasty-tasting lump which rushes towards his throat when he realises his mistake. He can have just 250 pages of text, and he has used four of them for the foreword!

Talk about addictive behaviour, he thinks. I need my head seeing to! I’m an idiot! This is never going to work. Delete! Damn…

He is a useless author and an even worse person. Titus is suddenly swamped by a strong impulse to eat, drink and smoke. Indeed, to do anything that will take him away from here. But he tries to calm himself a little by pulling out of his brain the reward image with boy-Titus and the milk moustache. He shuts his eyes and concentrates on his picture therapy. But what’s happening? The boy is naked! And one half of his bottom is far too long! It’s supported on a crutch, like a tired giant penis. And on top of the half-bottom there’s a piece of bloody meat. The boy is wearing a cap with a peak that is also too long. That too is supported on a crutch!

Titus’ thoughts become clearer. He has seen that picture before, in reality! It is a painting by the surrealist Salvador Dali. The painting is called The Enigma of Wilhelm Tell and it hangs at Moderna Museet in Stockholm. This is a sign of some sort. He must go there! Has he found a main thread with which he can weave the book? His own Da Vinci code… the Dali code? Eureka!

Next stop Moderna Museet!

Titus stands before The Enigma of Wilhelm Tell. He has more-or-less run all the way from his little flat in Söder. He breathes heavily and he doesn’t get any calmer when he sees the painting before him. He must gasp for breath to get any air down into his lungs at all.

It’s an enormous painting. Enormous in size, and enormous in the way it blows your mind. Titus has a memory from the first time he saw it. He is five years old and on a Sunday family outing to the museum. He runs around amidst all the happenings and paintings at his own speed and without really having to keep an eye on mum and dad. Then suddenly he finds himself in front of the big Salvador Dali painting. He doesn’t know how long he stands there staring at the painting. Perhaps time has stopped. Every detail is etched into his retina, for all eternity it feels like. Even though he is only five years old, Titus knows that he is having a great art experience. These few minutes will haunt him for the rest of his life. His senses are wide open and filled to the brim with experiences just as if somebody had stood there and poured adventures into him from a bucket. Suddenly, after a few minutes’ staring from his five-year-old worm’s eye view, he sees his dad’s grey trouser legs flap past in front of him. He stretches out for dad’s hand to make sure that dad sees the painting too. They must share this great art experience. Look dad! Can you see the bottom? He gets hold of the hand. Holds it firmly. Lifts the linked hands towards the picture to point and show it to dad. There! Can you see it? Dad doesn’t answer. So Titus must look away from the picture to see what dad thinks. What? A complete stranger is standing there holding his hand! A totally alien dad who gives him a friendly but wondering smile. Shame washes over Titus. He has got hold of the wrong hand. Wrong dad. Titus can’t understand that the man just thinks that he is a cute boy. He can’t understand that this is the sort of thing that five-year-olds do all the time. Get me out of here! He lets go of the man’s hand with a start, and looks up at the picture again. Staring intently, he loses himself in the only thing that feels safe just now.