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had taken a similar position and been summarily denied, the matter had been taken up at the highestexecutive level. The publishing company which had been family owned for over a hundred years had suddenly been sold to a French oil company. The oil company had been interested in investing in media with the huge profits they had made from their Angolan oil fields. It was the directors of the oil company who finally debated the matter of Lundin’s refusal to obey the non-smoking policy on their table. At last a compromise had been reached and the company had a powerful ventilation system installed in Lundin’s office – at his expense.
    Humlin lifted a few manuscript piles from a chair and sat down. It was always chilly in the room since the ventilation system drew in air directly from the outside. Olof Lundin was wearing a woollen cap and mittens.
    ‘How is the book doing?’ Humlin asked.
    ‘Which one?’
    Humlin sighed.
    ‘The last one.’
    ‘As expected.’
    ‘What does that mean?’
    ‘Not as well as we had hoped.’
    ‘Is it possible for you to clarify the matter for me?’
    ‘We don’t expect any book of poetry to sell more than about one thousand copies. To date your book has sold one thousand, one hundred copies.’
    ‘So it actually sold more than you expected?’
    ‘No, not really.’
    ‘How is that possible?’
    ‘What don’t you understand?’
    ‘If a book sells more than you expected, how can it then possibly not have done as well as you had hoped?’
    ‘Naturally we always hope that our expectations have been set too low.’
    Humlin shook his head and pulled his coat tight. He was cold. Olof Lundin pushed some piles of paper out of the way in order to have a clear view of him.
    ‘How is the new book coming along?’
    ‘I just came out with a new book. I’m not a factory.’
    ‘Well; how is the book that you are going to write?’
    ‘I don’t know,’ Humlin said.
    ‘I hope it will go well.’
    ‘I hope so too.’
    ‘I just have some advice for you,’ Lundin said.
    ‘And what’s that?’
    ‘Don’t write it.’
    Humlin stared at him.
    ‘That’s your advice?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘You don’t want me to write the book that you nonetheless hope will go fine.’
    Lundin pointed to the ceiling.
    ‘They’re a bit nervous upstairs.’
    ‘Perhaps I should write a book of poetry about oil?’
    ‘It’s easy for you to laugh. I have them to answer to. They are pressuring me to show better profit margins.’
    ‘And what does that mean, practically speaking?’
    ‘That we shouldn’t publish any book that we don’t expect to sell at least fifty thousand copies.’
    Humlin was taken aback.
    ‘How many of the books that you presently publish sell fifty thousand copies?’
    ‘None,’ Lundin answered cheerily.
    ‘Is the company about to go out of business?’
    ‘No, far from it. But we are going to start publishing books that sell fifty thousand copies.’
    ‘I don’t think there’s ever been a book in the history of Swedish literature that has sold so many copies, at least in a first edition.’
    ‘That’s why I advise you not to write the book that you are planning to write. The one that I naturally hope would go well.’
    Humlin was starting to get a stomach ache. Had he just been black listed? Was he one of the authors the company was planning to ditch?
    ‘Do you plan to drop me?’
    ‘Not at all. Why would I do that? Haven’t I always told you that you are one of our cornerstones?’
    ‘I don’t particularly appreciate being likened to cement. But you know as well as I do that the kind of books I write will never sell fifty thousand copies.’
    ‘That’s why I don’t want you to write books like that any more. I want you to write something else.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘A crime thriller.’
    Humlin suddenly thought he saw an unpleasant resemblance between Lundin’s and Leander’s faces.
    ‘I am a poet. I don’t write crime fiction, and don’t particularly want to try. I