"There Are Things I Want You to Know" About Stieg Larsson and Me (21 page)

Friday, September 9

I’VE HIRED
Erica Striby, of the Bergquist Law Firm, to draw up the deed of gift for their half of the apartment, which she sent off to the Larssons today.

Tuesday, September 13

SVANTE WEYLER
is leaving the position of editorial director at Norstedts. Eva Gedin, Stieg’s editor, will replace him. No news from the Larssons.

It’s been ten months since Stieg died. Neither his father nor his brother has asked me where he was buried.

IN THE
days that followed, there was no reply to my lawyer’s letter about deeding over the other half of the
apartment. If Stieg knew that his publisher wanted, against his wishes, to make a film from his books, he would be furious and react violently to this betrayal. But if he saw what his father and brother are doing to me, he would be wounded beyond all measure and would not quit until he’d had his revenge. Attacking me would have been an attack on him.

Friday, October 7

MEETING WITH
the Yellow Bird people at the Pan Agency office.

The screenwriter, Lars Björkman, starts off with a direct question: “Have you read the fourth volume?”

Reply: “No!”

And voilà—one less question!

A few minutes later, another question: “Stieg must have done a lot of research. Where is his documentation?”

“Would you like to take a look?” I then bring out a whole pile of Stieg’s writing I’ve brought with me: his books on the far right, his last article for
Searchlight
, his reports for CRIDA (
Centre de recherche et d’information sur la démocratie et l’autonomie
), for Tel Aviv University, for CRISP (
Centre de recherche et d’information socio-politiques
), etc.

“You’ll find names, people, events, opinions, reflections,” I add, while they examine the material. “This is Stieg’s life, and that is all his documentation. His crime novels flow naturally from the rest of his work.”

Another question settled!

There were more points raised, for example the places and addresses in the trilogy. I explained that, thanks to my profession, I had furnished them. Next, the characters. “Aside from those everyone knows,” someone asked, “like the boxer Paolo Roberto, are there other real people in the novels?”

Answer: “Yes.” Next question!

“And that style, that way of speaking, where does that come from?”

Here I was careful to explain that the atmosphere of these books was different from that of classic crime fiction because Stieg came from Västerbotten County, and I advised the Yellow Bird team to pay close attention to the influence of the Bible on his fictional world. One of the women there agreed with me, and to my surprise, announced that she was the daughter of Per Olov Enquist—a contemporary author I’ve already mentioned in a similar context, whose works reflect his roots in the isolated northern region of Västerbotten.

At the end of the meeting, we parted on good terms, and I was invited to come to Ystad, where Yellow Bird has its headquarters. As for my collaboration, that remained somewhat up in the air.

Wednesday, October 19

PER-ERIK NILSSON
phoned at around eight this evening to read me what Erland and Joakim’s lawyer
Svanström had faxed to him from Umeå. In short:

The response to my request to take over the management of the intellectual rights to Stieg’s work is NO. The Larssons will continue to handle that, in concert with Norstedts. Or someone of Norstedts’ choice.

The response to the deed of gift for their half of the apartment is NO. Unless I hand the fourth manuscript for the
Millennium
series over to Norstedts. In which case, the discussion regarding intellectual property rights might also be reconsidered.

The response concerning the remainder of the outstanding loan Stieg took out to buy our home is that it should be paid for by his life insurance.

And finally, they emphasize that they “have been generous” since they’re leaving me Stieg’s bank accounts, the furniture, and his life insurance (of which I am in fact the beneficiary and which should not be included in his estate).

“How
mean
!” I exclaimed.

“Yes, that’s about right,” replied Per-Erik.

These new and unexpected arbitrary demands must be due to my lack of cooperation during the meeting with the film production company last October 7.

So everything started up again. For the umpteenth time, trapped in insomnia, I had trouble sleeping. I’d get up, smoke, go back to bed, get up again, over and over, before dropping off at dawn with barbed wire rolling around in my head. Then I stopped eating. Again. For the I-don’t-know-how-manyeth time.

Thursday, October 20

I SENT
an email to Eva Gedin at Norstedts and to Magdalena Hedlund at the Pan Agency to inform them of Erland and Joakim’s responses. I explained that since the Larssons refused to grant me the intellectual property rights, Norstedts should therefore tell Yellow Bird that it is the Larssons, not I, who must give them the information they had wanted from me. There was no reply to my email.

Friday, October 21

A DISCOURAGING
and exhausting meeting with Per-Erik Nilsson. Not only are we at a standstill, but he’s suggesting that I “think over this business about the fourth manuscript.” I blew up. “They’ll never get it! It’s probably in the computer that belongs to
Expo
, and the contents of that laptop are protected by the Constitution: all of Stieg’s contacts, all of his informants, all of his sources for his work as a journalist must be in there! Those vital documents cannot fall into the hands of these people,
because it’s none of their business!
”

Then Per-Erik had to leave to go take care of his grandchildren. I was worn out. I felt more alone than ever.

Wednesday, October 26

I CAN’T
think anymore, can’t organize thoughts, can’t work. I went to see the head of personnel, who sized up the situation. “Go home,” she said, “you’ll be better off there.” In the train coming back to Stockholm, I watched the autumn countryside fly past. The landscape looked heavy, almost glutted. The earth was full of colors—brown, green, ocher, black—and at the same time, tired. Like me. I was so tired, but also consumed with the desire to keep fighting. For Stieg. The way
he
would do. The way he would ask me to do.

When I got home, I unplugged all the phones and decided not to read any of my emails for a few days. For the first time in a year, I was going to rest, read poetry, think things over, stroll around, go look at Lake Mälaren. My
nið
for Stieg flows in its waters. That makes me happy. Then, in the silence of our home, Stieg came back, because suddenly there was room for him. While I listened to “You Are Always on My Mind,” I wept. I began to talk to Stieg. I felt terrible and useless for not having managed to protect his life’s work. It was as if I had betrayed him.