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

  on some notes he'd bought from me at a literature festival

  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

  off, I'll deal with Petter.

  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

&nbsp
; 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