"There Are Things I Want You to Know" About Stieg Larsson and Me (15 page)

“Richard seems to be giving up. That’s not an option.
Expo
mustn’t fold. Or Stieg will have worked himself to death for nothing! You have to do something.”

“I’ll be there tomorrow.”

SO
EXPO
revved up again on the afternoon of November 10 with a historic meeting. Everyone who had collaborated at any time on the magazine, even just once, showed up spontaneously. There was such a crowd that they ran out of chairs, so people were standing and leaning all along the walls. Mikael ran the meeting, standing in the center of it all to relay the information from Stieg’s agenda: the dates for future meetings and lectures, the deadlines for the various
articles. Monika sat in a chair next to Mikael with a box of paper tissues on her lap, passing them up to him as needed because as he talked, tears kept streaming down his cheeks. Then everyone found a spot somewhere in the office to set up; some people were crying, but they all got to work.

That evening, Mikael stopped by the apartment to see Britt and me and told us simply, “It went well.” We drank wine and whisky until three thirty in the morning. We couldn’t manage to talk about Stieg’s death, but thanks to the alcohol, at least we managed to talk to one another.

I was relieved that
Expo
would keep going. Beyond that, I felt numb.

IN SWEDEN
, funerals take place a few weeks after a death. For Stieg’s service we had to wait even longer because people wanted to come from all over: England, Germany, the United States.… I chose December 10, the day the Nobel Prizes were being handed out. That way, it would be easier to keep a low profile for the funeral in case any extremists wanted to grab some attention.

RUNNING AWAY
from reality, I focused on something outside myself: what was happening at
Expo
. I wanted to do whatever I could to keep the magazine going. I’m talking not about money, but about morale, because everyone was so shaken by our loss that, more than anything else, I feared they would lose heart. When I discussed this with a friend in the police force, she agreed with me, and told me how to contact the therapist they usually turned to for help with victims of traumatic stress. Later, when the
Expo
staff turned down that offer of help, I spoke with each of them individually to make sure that nobody needed anything or anyone. That evening, for the first time in a long while, I slept for seven hours straight.

I was an animal acting on instinct—a protective measure that kept anyone harmful to me at a distance. I went through life like a zombie. Every morning I woke up in tears, although my nights were dreamless. Absolute darkness. The animal in me was restless and kept me constantly in motion. I did a lot of walking, but never alone, because I no longer dared go out on my own. Not recognizing the woman I’d become, I had no idea what she might be capable of doing, to myself or to people I might meet. Like a hunted beast, I fed only on little things picked up in passing: dates, nuts, fruit.

In the days that followed, Svante Weyler came to the apartment as a representative of Norstedts to offer condolences. When he asked if I was Stieg’s heir and if the books could be published as planned, I told him that of course the books should come out. And that Stieg and I had lived together as life companions.

Six days after Stieg died, Britt went home to Gothenburg. I then left my bed and started sleeping on the soft, upholstered couch so I could keep an eye on the front door and hallway, like a beast at bay. From then on I made sure I was alone. I wanted to get a grip, become myself again, without being constantly distracted by visitors. I’d spend the whole day lying down, without sleeping, under several blankets and a comforter because I was always cold. I didn’t take any medications or sleeping pills. I did not have any and did not want any.

NOVEMBER
17 is my birthday. It’s also the day I found Stieg’s gravesite. Back in the city, I had coffee with a woman friend, and
for the first time I cried. Sheer relief. Finally, I’d found the right place. To my own astonishment, I said, “I can live with it.” Yes, I said that, of all things.… In the afternoon I had an appointment with the social worker at St. Göran’s Hospital and asked her about ways of helping the
Expo
team get through this first trauma. I was given to understand that too much help would be a hindrance, because they had to find their strength within themselves, as I was discovering on my own. That evening, two friends dropped by for my birthday, bringing a nice meal and some good wine. That night, though, I felt like a run-over animal that longs only for an end to its suffering.

The next morning I woke up at around seven, weeping. I ate a little porridge, a habit I’d picked up after my sister had gone home. In the evenings, I would fix myself some supper, then prove unable to eat it. But that afternoon I finally went to a doctor, who ordered a medical leave of absence for me. On the prescription he wrote, “Serious shock; two months’ time off from work.” Having no idea what state I was in and thinking he was exaggerating, I refused the medications he wanted me to take.

Later that afternoon, at
Expo
, I spoke with the ten-person team that regularly worked with us. They still didn’t want to see the therapist I’d mentioned to them, and said they all had someone close to them to see them through.

AS THE
days went by, I tried to take care of our outstanding bills at home but couldn’t do the math in my head, the way I always did, and I needed a calculator. When I looked
at the numbers, they jumped around, wouldn’t stay still. The “animal me” clearly didn’t need to know how to count!

I also attempted to read Carl Laurin’s essay on Carl Larsson, the illustrator and painter who was a beloved figure in the Swedish Arts and Crafts movement. All I could do, though, was trail after the letters as they went by, and I kept having to start sentences over again, trying to understand what I’d just read. At the end of the fifth page, I just quit. The animal didn’t want to read, either. Would I ever be able to go back to work again?

SVANTE WEYLER
phoned me on November 26 and suggested during our conversation that the legal department at Norstedts should look into the inheritance situation, since they were the ones in the best position to do so. “The important thing is to arrive at a morally acceptable solution,” I told him. On Wednesday, December 1, Eva Gedin, an editor with Norstedts, called to tell me that Stieg’s book was fantastic, that they were considering several designs for the cover, and she invited me to come have a look at them. She added that they’d felt Stieg had grown quite close to them even though they knew almost nothing about him, and I said I hoped the memorial service, commemoration, and following reception would offer a full appreciation of Stieg’s life.

December 10, 2004

I WOKE
up very early that morning. When I try to remember that day and the ones that followed, I can find only scraps of memories lost in a fog. I wrote nothing down in my diary; it was as if I hadn’t been there. The burial service in a small chapel was only for relatives and close friends, whereas the commemoration was a more formal, public event.

It was a lovely December day, sunny, without any snow. The breeze was gentle and mild. Police were discreetly stationed everywhere. In Sweden, the law requires that the dates and hours of funerals be made available to the public online. We were afraid that right-wing extremists
might disrupt the ceremony, so the funeral director and the
Expo
staff did their best to provide adequate security.

Erland flew in with his companion, and Joakim came with his wife Maj and their two children. When they saw the fifty or so guests at the chapel service they were astonished, having thought that only people close to Stieg and me would attend. I explained that they were right—that everyone there was a close friend, and that a great many of our friends were even missing because not all of them could come, especially not from abroad.

The commemoration would be held in central Stockholm at the headquarters of the Workers’ Educational Association. I’d chosen eighteen speakers who would talk about Stieg, including Graeme Atkinson from
Searchlight
and Mikael Ekman from
Expo
.

Since I was supposed to speak as well, I’d tried to write out a little speech the day before, but the words hadn’t come. Yet I had to say
something
. So I’d decided to show how tender and affectionate Stieg was by reading the letter he’d written me in 1977 from his hospital bed in Addis Ababa, where he had almost died. He’d told me how much he loved me and that when he returned, he wanted us to build a new life together.
But I couldn’t find that letter
. I spent the entire afternoon searching the whole apartment, until late that evening, after going through every closet, I found a big cardboard box in one of our storerooms, and inside it was a small box crammed full of letters. On one manila envelope was written, “To be opened only after my death. Stieg Larsson.”