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Authors: Peter Stjernstrom
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shouts. ‘The film is about the same thing! People who suffer, people who are afraid to die, people who force themselves to do horrible deeds because of their guilt about their own inadequacies. Do you remember the mass-murder boy in the cellar? The one who sews clothes from the skin of his victims? He could just as well be the boy at the bottom on the crutch. Both of them suffer from an extreme inferiority complex. Just like Napoleon did! And Salvador Dali with his stupid dad! Do you get it? Everybody has an inferiority complex at some time. Everybody has the same feelings deep inside. We are all like Salvador! All of us have our bottoms on a crutch!’
The children look at each other with wrinkled foreheads and puckered noses. They don’t have their bottoms in crutches, do they? What does she mean?
‘Now we’ll move along! Can you see the goat with a car tyre around its tummy over there?’
The group of children disappears as quickly as it turned up.
Titus remains standing in front of
The Enigma of Wilhelm Tell
for a few more moments. He is on the right track, his mind is in overdrive. The bottom on the crutch, the bottom on the crutch… then he suddenly gets it. Yes, of course! The serial killer in
The Best Book in the World
must naturally hang up the body parts of his victims on crutches. As a protest against his dad, the brusque middle-class dad who never let him come into full bloom. Who, on the contrary, belittled him and ill-treated him mentally and physically. And when the heroic detective eventually gets on his track then the arch villain is of course given the nickname Salvador, or perhaps even Serial Salvador. And Serial Salvador leaves clues that demand that you must analyse Dali’s paintings according to a new pattern in order to trace him. In that way,
The Best Book in the World
will be a revolutionary book about art history too! Perfect! Now all Titus has to do is read lots of books about Dali and then he’ll have cracked it.
Just what the doctor ordered, Titus thinks, satisfied. A good title for a book too,
The Bottom on the Crutch
… must go to the café and write it down!
He just has time to turn towards the exit when somebody grabs hold of his earlobe, pulls Titus’ head towards him and screams right into his ear:
‘COCK IN YOUR EAR!’
CHAPTER 11
The Start of the Hunt
I s there any limit to how quickly you can think? Sound travels at 340 metres a second in ordinary air. The fibres of your body transport nerve impulses almost as quickly.
Since the screaming mouth is as good as inside Titus’ ear, it is only a question of a hundredth of a second before the sound is transformed into an impulse which is sent to the brain along half a metre of winding fibres inside Titus’ skull. So it takes a second or so before he is aware of what is happening. The scream paralyses him in the meanwhile. During the second that passes, some traumatic episodes of Titus’ life are screened before his eyes, like a condensed and nasty near-death experience. An unpleasant situation flashes past, like a frozen memory image for a tenth of a second, before it disappears again.
He is in school, fifteen years old. Two boys in the class with downy beard growth have him in their grip. He can see their teeth. They smell of cigarettes, and beer: Pripps Blue. Titus starts to panic. They are going to hack their pencils into his hands. They are going smash him to bits. He writes too much. They hate that. They won’t let him be good at anything. They hate him because he does something they don’t understand. Poems are for homos. Only queers read novels. But writing is the only thing he can do! Writing is the only thing he wants to do, and they are going to take that away from him. He must flee. He must get away. Fight or die. Help, where is his reward image?
Ah, plop, there it is! Suddenly he is lying on the woman’s bosom again. He licks away his milk moustache. He breathes easily. He becomes calm.
One second has
The children look at each other with wrinkled foreheads and puckered noses. They don’t have their bottoms in crutches, do they? What does she mean?
‘Now we’ll move along! Can you see the goat with a car tyre around its tummy over there?’
The group of children disappears as quickly as it turned up.
Titus remains standing in front of
The Enigma of Wilhelm Tell
for a few more moments. He is on the right track, his mind is in overdrive. The bottom on the crutch, the bottom on the crutch… then he suddenly gets it. Yes, of course! The serial killer in
The Best Book in the World
must naturally hang up the body parts of his victims on crutches. As a protest against his dad, the brusque middle-class dad who never let him come into full bloom. Who, on the contrary, belittled him and ill-treated him mentally and physically. And when the heroic detective eventually gets on his track then the arch villain is of course given the nickname Salvador, or perhaps even Serial Salvador. And Serial Salvador leaves clues that demand that you must analyse Dali’s paintings according to a new pattern in order to trace him. In that way,
The Best Book in the World
will be a revolutionary book about art history too! Perfect! Now all Titus has to do is read lots of books about Dali and then he’ll have cracked it.
Just what the doctor ordered, Titus thinks, satisfied. A good title for a book too,
The Bottom on the Crutch
… must go to the café and write it down!
He just has time to turn towards the exit when somebody grabs hold of his earlobe, pulls Titus’ head towards him and screams right into his ear:
‘COCK IN YOUR EAR!’
CHAPTER 11
The Start of the Hunt
I s there any limit to how quickly you can think? Sound travels at 340 metres a second in ordinary air. The fibres of your body transport nerve impulses almost as quickly.
Since the screaming mouth is as good as inside Titus’ ear, it is only a question of a hundredth of a second before the sound is transformed into an impulse which is sent to the brain along half a metre of winding fibres inside Titus’ skull. So it takes a second or so before he is aware of what is happening. The scream paralyses him in the meanwhile. During the second that passes, some traumatic episodes of Titus’ life are screened before his eyes, like a condensed and nasty near-death experience. An unpleasant situation flashes past, like a frozen memory image for a tenth of a second, before it disappears again.
He is in school, fifteen years old. Two boys in the class with downy beard growth have him in their grip. He can see their teeth. They smell of cigarettes, and beer: Pripps Blue. Titus starts to panic. They are going to hack their pencils into his hands. They are going smash him to bits. He writes too much. They hate that. They won’t let him be good at anything. They hate him because he does something they don’t understand. Poems are for homos. Only queers read novels. But writing is the only thing he can do! Writing is the only thing he wants to do, and they are going to take that away from him. He must flee. He must get away. Fight or die. Help, where is his reward image?
Ah, plop, there it is! Suddenly he is lying on the woman’s bosom again. He licks away his milk moustache. He breathes easily. He becomes calm.
One second has
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