"There Are Things I Want You to Know" About Stieg Larsson and Me (22 page)

Monday, October 31

WOKE UP
at around ten this morning and went down to the Furusundsleden, the northernmost marine channel
into Stockholm, to look at the water stream by. I looked for a stone to place on Stieg’s grave. What should it be like? I would certainly know it when I saw it. I did not see it in the water. I walked along, my steps taking me toward a big red rock, smooth in some places, rough and cracked in others, and streaked with black. It made me think of Stieg. Soft and tough at the same time. Solid, unshakable in its convictions. Wearing its heart on its sleeve, visible only to those who know it well. There was no way for me to break off a little piece. That’s only natural, I thought: this rock, like Stieg, is too all-of-a-piece to be broken. I’m not going to worry anymore about that stone I wanted. It’s there. Like him.

Later that day I went out again to walk in the forest, and as I entered the woods, the cold settled down on my shoulders. I gathered lingonberries, acid and refreshing. Some blueberries, too, but they were tasteless, frozen, and no good at all. The October sun beamed down through any yellow leaves still clinging to the trees. A lovely autumn for a sad woman. I climbed a rounded hill, walking on its mossy carpet, a soft path, but one that led nowhere.

I’ll go toward the light, at least, I decided.

At the top there was nothing to see. Still, I stopped a moment in the sun and thought, I’m a little human being on a big hill, an insignificant thing in this world.

I’d failed in the one thing of any importance after Stieg died: defending him. To me, this failure was a betrayal. I didn’t have the courage to go on; tears were running down my cheeks, dripping from my chin, even starting to soak through my wool coat. I kept saying, “Forgive me, forgive me.…”

Suddenly I heard a sound so strange I had no idea what it was. Looking up, I saw a raven: royal and nonchalant, he came closer, and began to fly over me in crescent-shaped curves. It was as if he’d gone out to do an errand and, when turning toward home, had consented to make this little detour for me, thinking, Well, all right, if it’s really important. He spoke to me for a long time in a deep melodious voice. All at once, I was in the
nið
for Stieg, where I’d asked Odin’s ravens, Hugin and Munin, to peck holes in the head, eyes, and heart of all the cruel, sly, and cowardly people who had made Stieg suffer.

I was so astounded that I thought the impossible, without fear or hesitation: This isn’t for real. Odin, you’ve sent me your raven?

I do not know what the bird was saying, but its magnificent voice touched my heart, soothed my despair, and brought me peace. As if I’d been told, Everything is fine, you mustn’t worry anymore. So why don’t you head back home? On the way back I stumbled sometimes, thanks to my lack of sleep and appetite, but I was no longer alone. Stieg was supporting me. “You Were Always on My Mind.” I know that, my beloved friend; even when you didn’t have much time to spend with me, I know that I was always in your thoughts. As you are in mine.

That evening, I realized that the important thing now was not to go under. When I got home, I sent a few SMS messages to say that I was fine, that I simply needed peace, some quiet time to reflect and rest.

Thursday, November 3

I CHANGED
my landline and cell phone numbers. From now on, everyone except my friends and family will have to go through Per-Erik or another lawyer to reach me. I left the phone store incredibly relieved.

Then I went to see our family doctor, who was upset by my condition. I did not want any medication or a two months’ leave of absence from work, but I did accept a month of part-time. I need to work, to occupy my mind. I also need to relax and live a normal life.

Wednesday, November 9

TONIGHT WAS
the commemoration of Kristallnacht and the first anniversary of Stieg’s death. I spent half the day working on the speech I’d be giving along with the photos I had to present. I put on black pants, the lavender Linnéa Braun blouse I bought at Myrorna (a really neat Salvation Army store), and a suede jacket from the flea market in Falun. I wore my hair loose and put on a bit of makeup.

The gathering was held at Cirkeln, a restaurant, where coffee and cakes were served.

Daniel Poohl of
Expo
began his speech by saying that he didn’t have any one particular memory of Stieg, but rather, a continuous memory of him … listening. “Stieg listened to absolutely everyone, including people we found completely
uninteresting. For example, we kept telling him to stop listening to that nitpicking idiot Jan Milld, of Blågula Frågor, a small political association that focuses on immigration issues: ‘You’re wasting your time with him!’ You know what happened: Jan Milld wound up the secretary general of the Sweden Democrats, a nationalist movement. Everyone was flabbergasted except … Stieg—who had listened to him! It’s not surprising that many higher-ups in that party sincerely regretted Stieg’s death, because
he listened to them
. He was like that, Stieg: he listened.”

I was so impressed, once again, by the elegance of Daniel’s intelligence and his conviction.

When it was my turn to speak, I was quite calm.

I began by recalling that Stieg and I had worked together for thirty-two years and lived together for thirty. And that people do what they do not by chance, but because everything in their lives has led them to do it. To understand Stieg’s work, I said, one had to know who he really was. Then I showed the black-and-white photos of his childhood with his grandparents, and the later ones in color of the kitchen with the single cookstove and the grandfather’s workshop, where he repaired bicycles, among other things. I explained that to Stieg, these people, poor and culturally marginalized, represented a minority victimized by discrimination. And that in the end, at one moment or another, we can all become such a minority and even, at the whim of history, find ourselves in deadly danger. I spoke of the Danish and Swedish internment camps (Storsien, in northern Sweden, in particular),
the deportation of their prisoners, and the fortress of Theresienstadt where the internees were executed or sent on to Auschwitz or other extermination camps. I supplied dates, the numbers of prisoners and of those who perished—all information I had dug up that morning. Then, returning to a picture of Stieg as a baby with his grandfather, I revealed that Stieg had told me Severin Boström had been imprisoned in Storsien, but had miraculously survived to continue the voyage of his life and take care of a little boy who had loved him as his father. Stieg’s deep political engagement sprang from his childhood, from such experiences as listening to his grandfather talk about what had happened on Kristallnacht.

I went on to speak about the foundation I wanted to create in memory of Stieg. The idea was to award a prize every year to honor a militant journalist or photographer. I showed one of Stieg’s favorite portraits, the photo I’d taken of him from a low angle, in which he’s leaning back in the sunlight, squinting and smiling—at me. Beneath the photo, I’d added something taken from an editorial for the December 1997 issue of
Expo
, which never appeared: “We know that what we do is necessary.…”

Finally, I concluded by explaining that
Expo
had almost died back in those days, that there’d been no more private funding to keep it afloat and the editorial staff had been exhausted. I hoped everyone now understood why Stieg had used the word “necessary.”

I WAS
pleased to have been able to carry on throughout that terrible day. To have been able, surrounded by the warmth of our friends, to speak calmly, without being overwhelmed by grief.

This November 9 has been a day not of mourning, but of great spirituality.

Wednesday, November 23

A NEW
letter from Erland and Joakim’s lawyer. He asks me to sign the enclosed joint agreement regarding the division of the estate, in which it is stipulated that their half of the apartment will be given to me in exchange for my handing Stieg’s computer over to them.

In the accompanying letter, the lawyer points out that the Larssons—as well as various people at Norstedts—are unhappy at not having been invited to the gathering commemorating the anniversary of Stieg’s death. He mentions my speech, which, they feel, focused only on Stieg’s life as a writer.

What a complete misunderstanding of Stieg’s commitments! That evening was always a part of Stieg’s life. It would have been trivial and unimaginable for Stieg or any other speaker that night to have talked about anything other than the monstrous events of that Night of Broken Glass in 1938. Those who see Stieg solely as an author of crime fiction have never truly known him.