"There Are Things I Want You to Know" About Stieg Larsson and Me (17 page)

On December 31, 2004, Britt and I took a walk along the Montelius cliff path, toward Slussen (the Lock), which connects Gamla Stan with Södermalm. Before returning to the apartment on the small island of Reimersholm, just west of Södermalm, we bought wine and a leg of lamb. For more than a hundred years, a distillery on Reimersholm has produced spirits to make aquavit, the most popular Swedish drink. Aquavit is essentially vodka flavored with spices and berries, and today “Reimersholm” has become the generic name for the eighteen or so varieties of aquavit.
When Mikael Blomqvist drinks Reimersholm aquavit in the trilogy, Stieg is of course toasting “our” little island.

While the garlic-and-cinnamon-studded leg of lamb was cooking, I went off alone to finish my
nið
. I was nervous, because I needed to get it done in time—but I wanted it to be perfect, too. To help me out, Britt had called one of her friends, an Icelandic scholar, to ask her if there were any precise rules for the writing of a
nið
. After a moment of silence at the other end of the phone, her friend had asked, “You really mean
nið
, in the sense of an insulting rant?”

“That’s it.”

“Okay, you’re in luck. My family’s here, I’ll ask them.”

When she came back to the phone she told Britt that as far as they all knew, there were no particular rules about the rhyme scheme or number of syllables. On the other hand, she pointed out, there was a distinct obligation to limit the curse to the time it took for the foe to change his attitude and actions and formally recognize his faults.

Relieved, I was able to get to work, and made sure that I cursed Stieg’s enemies only until they realized what they had done.

The
nið
was ready at eight that evening, just before the guests arrived, the last of whom didn’t show up until ten and in evening dress, having slipped away from a fancy New Year’s Eve party. Half an hour later, we left the apartment and headed west to the farthest spit of Reimersholm, which juts out into Lake Mälaren. The temperature hadn’t gone below zero, so it wasn’t very cold and the lake hadn’t frozen over. There was hardly any snow, and wherever New Year’s Eve
parties were in full swing, windows shone brightly in the dark night. At the end of the island, I leaned back against a wooden barrier, with my back to the water. Behind me, on the other shore of the lake, were Eleanor’s house and the dock where I used to tie up the communal rowboat I borrowed whenever I went over to see her. In front of me stood the tree under which Stieg and I had often sat at night with a thermos of hot coffee, and the hill where we used to picnic in the summer. Happy memories were streaming by … it was a peaceful moment, moving and serene.

One of the guests produced some large candles from his backpack and set them alight on top of the wooden barrier. Then, to my great surprise, he pulled out a torch that he lighted and held aloft. With this fire, the pagan ritual was in its element! All of our friends there knew as well as I did what this ceremony was for. Speaking slowly and very distinctly, I read the
nið
I had composed. And I succeeded at last in expressing what I felt.

N. N.? THESE
initials don’t correspond to the real names of those for whom this
nið
is meant. There’s no point in trying to find out who they are. But
they
will recognize themselves. And so does everyone who contributed to Stieg’s deadly exhaustion.

A thousand years ago, at this stage of the ceremony, a horse was beheaded with a sword in sacrifice. To the Vikings of those days, this animal was sacred: their friend, companion, and the precious guarantor of their happiness and survival.

In 1987, at a job where I was a foreman and things were quite difficult to manage, a workman, a potter in his spare time, gave me one of his creations to thank me for my efforts with the team. It was two ceramic horses that had fused together in the heat of the kiln. I was particularly fond of this present, which to me symbolized absolute beauty, a job well done, recognition of my work, and the spirit of fraternity. With a sharp blow I separated the two animals, and turning toward the water, I threw one of them into this lake once sailed by Vikings.

In the silence that followed, we gazed for a long time at the place where the horse had vanished, relieved to have heard spoken aloud what we had all been thinking to ourselves. Then we hugged and kissed, vowing always to look after one another. In the darkness, I slipped off to our place to fetch some glasses and single malt Scotch. When I returned, I poured a small libation into the lake before serving my friends. Barley, from which this whisky is made, is also fed to horses, so I symbolically gave strength to my horse to speed him on his mission of revenge. And also assured, according to mythology, that the
nið
itself would be protected.

By now it was almost eleven thirty. In Sweden, fireworks go off everywhere at midnight on New Year’s Eve, and people pour out into the streets: it’s a wonderfully joyous moment. My friends and I had a drink together, and fifteen minutes
later, right before crowds of revelers arrived, we went back to my apartment to continue our special evening. I brought the second horse home with me from the lake and will keep him, even though he cannot stand up anymore on his own.

I felt free and at peace. My ceremony was my therapy, just as
The Millennium Trilogy
was for Stieg. Now I could envisage going on living without him.

KEEPING A
diary helped anchor me in reality. I filled pages and pages, sometimes even noting down what I was having for breakfast! Looking back on it, I think the diary was a way of proving to myself that I was alive. I’ve selected only important dates here, so that the reader may discover what I learned—to my astonishment—as the months went by.

Thursday, January 13, 2005

MEETING AT
Norstedts, ten o’clock. The publishing house asked some legal experts what my position could be regarding the management of Stieg’s work. After reviewing
their report, I point out that it never mentions the company Stieg discussed with me. What a shock! I find out that the company was never even started! Appalled, I repeat what Stieg explained to me: there’s no point in signing a “domestic partner” contract, as we were thinking of doing in March 2004, because the two of us would be the co-owners of that company. But Svante Weyler simply tries to tell me that the novels have been sold in Norway, that negotiations are under way with the Netherlands.… I don’t want to hear about
their
business negotiations! I’m devastated. How could Stieg have been so naïve?

Weyler promises to get in touch with my lawyer, Malin (who is busy drawing up the inventory of Stieg’s assets), as well as with Stieg’s father and brother, Erland and Joakim, to find a solution. I think: God only knows what’s going to happen now!

When I get home, I send an email to Joakim telling him everything. He replies that there must certainly be some way to carry out Stieg’s wishes and set up the company, even after the fact.

Saturday, January 15

MESSAGE FROM
Joakim on the answering machine. I call him back to tell him in detail about the shock I got at the Thursday meeting when I learned that nothing had been done, which meant that I didn’t exist. Joakim feels it should be enough to tell Weyler that an oral agreement
existed with Stieg that everything should come to me. And he adds that Weyler phoned Erland, who’d been unable to explain what was said. Then that evening, Erland calls me to say he agrees with me about having the chairman of
Expo
, Per-Erik Nilsson, handle everything, especially the negotiations with Norstedts.