that the help I'd given the author in this instance was
nothing unusual. He was even confident enough to start
asking me if I knew of anything else that was cooking.
Finally, when I indicated that I wasn't comfortable with
his inquisitive prattle - simply by picking up my paper cup
of coffee and strolling off towards the German stands -
he took me by the arm and said: 'Careful, Petter.' It
was kindly said. But I don't think it was kindly meant. I
interpreted his words as a threat. Perhaps he was fearful of
his author's reputation � and by implication the good name
of the entire publishing house.
I stood exchanging a few words with the editorial director
of one of the large German publishing firms. He told me
they had a particularly strong list that year. I was given a glass
of spumante, but the man I was talking to had no notion that
the preliminary work on two of the books we were speaking
about, had been done in Oslo many years earlier. It made no
difference.
I went round the book fair's halls all morning. I was
working, I'd always loved such halls, they were good places
to be. The halls and corridors of the big European book fairs
were my personal imperial palaces, and my favourite of all
was this vernal residence in Bologna. I ate better in Bologna.
Bologna had more women.
I loved going from country to country in the fair's halls,
greeting colleagues from every corner of the globe.
Relatively few authors came to Bologna, but I saw my
books on the displays. I had inspired dozens of books for
children and teenagers over the years, but I was the only
one who recognised my own fecundity. I loved talking to
editors about the new books I'd initiated. I gave my
opinion, I thought it only fair, and I wouldn't balk at
tearing one of my own novels to pieces if I thought it was
badly written. I might say that the author had squandered
the plot, or at least could have used it much better. Then I
might say in my own words what I considered to be the
kernel of the novel. It was fun. Lots of editors found food
for thought, for not all of them could expose a novel's
underlying intrigue as succinctly as me. It was a joy. I didn't
always manage to read every title from cover to cover
before a book fair, but in broad terms I was able to give an
account of the content of every book that, from an early
stage, I'd had dealings with. I really knew my stuff. There
was no doubt about that.
At this Bologna Book Fair, however, I had the feeling
that something had altered since the Frankfurt Book Fair six
months earlier. During the morning I greeted perhaps a
hundred acquaintances. This was nothing unusual. Greeting
a hundred people in the course of a morning isn't many at a
book fair, at least not for me.
On this occasion I became more and more convinced that
some of them were in league. Not all, of course - I noticed
that as well. To include everyone I'd had dealings with over
the course of the years, would have been as impossible as
bringing all the forest ants together into one ant-hill. But a
number of them had been conferring. That might mean
time was up - my time was up.
An Italian agent grabbed hold of me and spontaneously
exclaimed: 'So you have come to the fair this year, have
you?' This was an odd question on two counts: she could
see that I was there, and I'd been coming to the book fair
at Bologna for the past ten years at least. A bit later I met
Cristina from one of the big Italian publishing conglomer-
ates. We'd known each other for years. Cristina had the
loveliest eyes in the world and its second sexiest voice, after
Maria. But now Cristina put a hand to her forehead as soon
as she caught sight of me, as if I was the ghost at the
feast. 'Petter!' she cried. 'Did you read that article in the
Corriere della Sera?' She wasn't able to say more before she
was shanghaied by a Portuguese I'd only vaguely met. He
was new. And some sort of scout as well. My head was
reeling.
OK, I thought. I should have read the article in the
Corriere della Sera. It wasn't like me to be poorly informed,
but it had been weeks since I'd last been south of the Alps. I
didn't like the sudden change of tone, in the empire. There
were conspirators abroad, perhaps a revolution in pro-
gress, and what happens to an emperor when there's a
revolution?
I'd had enough for one day, even though I'd done no
business. As I made for the main entrance, I caught sight of
a Danish author who'd just managed to get a novel for
teenagers published in Italian. I didn't think it particularly
well written, but its plot was impressive and had been based
in Toronto. I considered a friendly nod was the least I
deserved. It can be hectic at a book fair, but the Dane looked
away as soon as he noticed me, it was almost as if he was
surprised to see me alive. Perhaps being unwilling to look
someone in the eyes isn't so odd if you think the said
individual is no longer in the land of the living. It struck me,
too, that it must be hard to meet an old friend's eyes just
a few hours or days before he disappears � and more
especially, I thought, if you foresee a role for yourself in
the disappearing act. My imagination was too lively. I was in
a bad mood. I'd begun to work up a synopsis for a novel
about my own demise.
I went straight to the main entrance and took a taxi back
to my hotel. I was staying on the fourth floor of the
Baglioni. Once inside my room, I pulled the stopper off a
bottle of mineral water from the mini-bar, threw myself
down on the large double bed and fell asleep with the bottle
in my hand. When I awoke abruptly after a long, deep sleep,
I had the momentary fear that I'd made my debut as a bed-
wetter.
*
A few hours later I was sitting with a beer in the Piazza
Maggiore. I was restless. There were publishing people at
almost every caf� table, and I was on nodding terms with the
majority. Some greeted me amicably, but this evening there
were also others who didn't. I felt them staring at my back. I
felt ostracised.
When I'd been in the mood, I'd sometimes come to this
place to seek female companionship for the evening. Either
with someone I already knew well or a woman I'd just been
introduced to. There were no husbands or wives at a book
fair, and although at Bologna both sexes were probably
evenly represented, there wouldn't be a single spouse. I
always took a double room at the Baglioni. Many editors
and agents lived far more modestly.
I caught sight of Cristina, she was sitting with Luigi
outside a neighbouring caf�. Luigi wasn't merely a brilliant
publisher in his own right, he was also the son of the
legendary Mario. On
ce, when in Milan, I'd been lent
Mario's box at La Scala, where I'd watched a passable
performance of Turandot.
As soon as I noticed Luigi at the adjacent caf�, I began
thinking about my mother. She would have loved sitting in
Mario's box at La Scala, she would have behaved like a
queen. But I'd sat in the box alone that evening. If my
mother had lived perhaps Writers' Aid wouldn't have
existed, and presumably then I'd never have met Mario,
either. If my mother had lived just a bit longer, everything
would have been different, and perhaps Maria and I would
never have met.
I began thinking about Das Schachgeheimnis again. Several
years had passed since its publication. I'd immediately pulled
the synopsis out of the binders containing notes for sale and
thrown it away. What would Maria's next move be, I
wondered? I felt jaded.
At a nearby table people were speaking a Slavonic lan-
guage I didn't understand, but I had the feeling they were
talking about me. I heard voices behind me too, and I sensed
that everyone in the caf� was discussing The Spider. I began
thinking of Hans Christian Andersen's fairy tale about the
feather that turned into five hens. Pass it on! Pass it on! There
were always rumours buzzing round a book fair, there was
nothing new in that, but now they were whispering about
me. I felt a prick of anxiety, I didn't know why, but I was
nervous. Perhaps the thing about Hans Christian Andersen
and the hard stares behind me were merely figments of my
imagination. Anyone who's starting to develop a persecu-
tion complex should never stay too long at a book fair.
I decided to return to my hotel and take a sleeping pill,
but then I remembered something Cristina had said in the
hall. I left some money on the table for my beer and walked
through the caf� guests towards Cristina and Luigi. They
hadn't seen me. I tapped Cristina on the shoulder and said:
'The Corriere della Sera?'
They both jumped. Perhaps they'd been talking about me
as well. Cristina glanced quickly at the clock and said she had
to go. I thought it odd that she had to leave just as I arrived.
Earlier in the day she'd been quick to start a conversation
with a Portuguese and now she merely offered me her
chair, waved goodbye and walked across the square in the
direction of the cathedral. As she scurried away, she and
Luigi exchanged a glance. It was as if his look said: You get
I looked at Luigi. 'What was in the Corriere della Sera?' I
asked.
He leant back and fished out a packet of cigarillos from his
jacket pocket. It was a signal that this might take a while.
'Have you heard of The Spider?' he asked.
'Certainly,' I said. 'I hear about everything.'
'OK,' he said. He took a sip of his beer. Luigi was a man
of few words, he was deliberation itself.
'Was there something about The Spider in the Corriere
della Sera?'
He nodded.
I don't think he noticed the start I gave. I tried to regain
my composure.
'It's probably the first time anything has found its way
into print,' I commented. 'What did they say?'
'I know the author of the article well,' he said. 'He also
writes for L'Espresso, and he's now reportedly working on a
longer feature.'
I felt irritated. I waved an arm dismissively: 'I asked what
he wrote.'
Only Luigi could give just that kind of smile. 'Stefano
believes The Spider is Norwegian,' he said.
'Any name?'
He shook his head. I'd started whispering. I had the
feeling there were several dozen pricked ears all about us.
'He might as well be Norwegian as anything else,' I
murmured, and Luigi registered the fact that I was speaking
in hushed tones. 'The Spider is everywhere, he's every-
where and nowhere,' I said. 'I don't think I can help you,
Luigi.'
He said: 'So, it isn't you then, Petter?'
I laughed. 'I'm flattered by the compliment,' I said. 'But
as I said, I can't help you. You can tell your friend that from
me.'
His eyes opened wide.
'I think you're getting things rather the wrong way round
now,' he put in. 'Stefano's message to you is that you're the
one who may be needing help. If you are The Spider I'd
advise you to make tracks as fast as possible.'
I laughed again. I had no reason to look dejected.
It was vital this conversation continue as a light-hearted
chat.
I looked to left and right and whispered: 'But why? What
is it this "Spider" is supposed to have done?'
He'd lit a cigarillo, and now he gave a more detailed
explanation. Neither were characteristic of Luigi. 'Suppose
there's a fantasy factory somewhere. Run by just one
person, and let's say it's a man. He sits there covertly,
constantly spinning slick story-lines for novels and plays of
every kind. Suppose - strange and incredible though it
may seem - he has no ambitions to publish anything
himself. It's conceivable, after all. Perhaps it's an anathema
to him to put his name to so much as a poem or a short
story, and maybe this is because he has a peculiar desire to
live incognito; but despite this he can't stop spinning tales
and fables, he just can't switch the engine off. Let's assume
that over the years he's built up an extensive network of
contacts within the book industry, both in his own
country and abroad. He knows hundreds of authors, and
many of them suffer regular bouts of what we call writer's
block. Assume all this, and that amongst this group of
authors there are certain individuals who are prepared to
ask for help. Assume now that this fantasy factory began to
sell half-finished literary wares to frustrated authors. Do
you follow?'
His eyes bored into mine. While he was speaking I'd
beckoned to the waiter and ordered a bottle of white wine.
It piqued me that Luigi thought he was better informed than
me.
'Of course I follow,' I said 'and I believe you're right that
something of the sort is happening. It fits in with my own
experience.'
'Really?' said Luigi.
'But what of it?' I went on. 'I agree that you're describing
a curious phenomenon, but don't you think writers are
simply thankful for all the help they can get from this fantasy
factory? Shouldn't the reading public be rubbing its hands?
When the weather's damp and cold and it's hard to light a
big bonfire, you're grateful to the man who's brought along
a can of paraffin.'
He laughed. 'Yes quite, but I don't think you know this
country too well.'
What a lame comment, I thought. I was a European after
all. 'Any particular titles?' I asked.
He mentioned five novels that had appeared in Italy over
the previous couple of years. Four of them were mine. The
; fifth, which paradoxically enough was entitled Seta or 'Silk',
was a little gem of an Italian fable which I'd read, but which
I hadn't dreamt up.
'Bravo,' I said. I don't know why I said it because it was a
foolish reaction.
'By the very nature of the thing, this fantasy factory can
keep going for years,' he said, 'but suppose that the writers
begin to get jittery. They've become dependent on in-
jections from external sources and now they're afraid of
being caught in a dope test. At any moment, right out of
the blue, they might be caught cheating. They no longer
trust The Spider; one day he might strip them of all the
fame and kudos their books have given them. Now, sup-
pose that one day they get so fidgety that they begin to
confer.'
Again I glanced to left and right. Was anyone listening to
us? Looking round was a silly thing to do. 'Why should that
worry The Spider?' I whispered. 'He hasn't done anything
illegal, and I can't see that he's done anything reprehensible
either. He's sure to have had clear-cut agreements with each
of the authors he's dealt with.'
'You're not an Italian,' he reiterated. 'You're too gullible,
perhaps. But imagine these authors owe The Spider money.
Lots of money, big money.'
I hated anyone to take me for credulous. One of my
greatest bugbears was associating with people who patron-
ised me. It wasn't being unmasked as The Spider that scared
me so much, but I loathed the idea of anyone thinking
they'd managed to see through me.
'That's hardly a problem,' was my only comment. 'Even
if he can't call in everything the authors owe him, he'll get
by all the same. I still can't see why it should trouble you or
me, or for that matter the reading public'
I found it irritating that I couldn't express myself more
clearly. My mouth felt as if it was full of sand.
Luigi looked me in the eyes: 'What are they planning,
Petter? Think of it as fiction. Use your imagination.'
'They'll obviously try to kill him,' I said.
He nodded: 'They'll hire someone to kill him. It's not
difficult in this country.'
The bottle of white wine had long since arrived, I'd
already drunk more than half of it. 'Don't you think The
Spider has considered that possibility?' I asked now.
'Certainly,' said Luigi, 'most certainly, just think of all the
ingenious plots he's put together. For all we know he may
have made use of hidden cameras and bugs, and if he's
liquidated, the world may be told precisely which novels
he's been responsible for. Every single sentence he's sold
will be made public, on the internet perhaps, and many an
author will die of shame. It may be because of all this that
he's managed to keep things going for so long. The very
bedrock of his business is his authors' sense of self-esteem.
And anyway, a lot of good stuff has come from his direction,
we mustn't lose sight of that. We may well miss him, we
publishers especially.'
Now my laugh was genuine. 'So what are we talking
about then? Do you really think there are people who'd be
willing to murder� only to "die of shame" afterwards?'
'Oh come, come, Petter! You disappoint me. It isn't the
ones who are ashamed The Spider needs to watch, he's still
got a hold over them.'
Something dawned on me. I couldn't bear the thought of
being considered a disappointment. I decided to repair the
damage at once.
'You're right,' I said. 'Of course, it's the ones with no
shame that The Spider must watch out for. Even shame
fame has its own market, and it's a market that's growing
and growing. When I was young, it was practically non-
existent, but times change. Even the Japanese have stopped
committing hara-kiri. It's so dispiriting, so decadent. More
and more people exploit their shame. It provides them with
column inches and makes them even more famous. You're
right there, Luigi, your logic is correct.'
He nodded emphatically, then said: 'They owe him
royalties for ever more, maybe ten, maybe twenty per cent
of their own income. And these authors haven't done any-
thing wrong either, you mustn't forget that. They won't go