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.
THE NEXT day, I speak with Per-Erik, who agrees to represent me. I’m greatly relieved that someone like him—a lawyer, a former judge, the former head of the Judicial Department of the Council of State under Prime Minister Olof Palme, a former chief ombudsman of Sweden—is taking charge of what I cannot handle on my own.
We meet for the first time on January 21 at the offices of Expo, since I’ve gone back to work up in Falun as of January 10, and am out of Stockholm for four days a week.
I send an email to Joakim to explain all this and let him know that Per-Erik will be contacting him and Erland. Joakim tells me to keep my chin up, saying that I’m right to entrust the handling of this business to an experienced lawyer. He tells me again that there must be some way to deal with this that effectively proceeds just as if Stieg and I had been married. He signs off by asking me to take care of myself.
In mid-February, the inventory of assets is completed. Stieg’s father and brother did not come to the meeting at the lawyer’s office.
Tuesday, February 22
I WORKED all day long at the office, and dealt efficiently with a respectable number of files. I even spent a long time digging through the EU directives and regulations to find the rest of some information I needed.
This evening, at home, all became silent and calm. Surrounded by this silence, concentrating on myself, I began to cry. Wrenching sobs, dreadfully deep. Everything I have lost is in this suffering, along with a cruel feeling of insecurity. During the day, there’s no room for silence, or sorrow: they’re beaten down. In the evening, though, they rise again, stretching delicately, almost tenderly, and they take up all the room.
Sunday, March 20
A FEW weeks ago, I’d made up my mind to consult a crisis therapist, but after the tsunami last December in Southeast Asia, all of the psychological assistance services offered by the county council have been devoted as a matter of priority to survivors of that tragedy. It’s been five months since Stieg died, and I’ve only just now found a private therapist. We met for the first time today. After all those months when I couldn’t manage to express my pain, suddenly I’m being asked to talk about it. I still can’t do it. I could only paint a picture of what I feel like: a ball.
Thursday, March 24
I’VE RECEIVED several emails from Joakim this month about inheritance taxes and accounting surpluses. He also informed me that Weyler had sent him the first volume of The Millennium Trilogy and asked me if I’d gotten one, too. I had no idea what he was talking about. After March 24, I never heard from Joakim again.
Tuesday, March 29
AFTER EASTER weekend, I took two and a half days off because I didn’t have the courage to go up to Falun for such a short time. I stayed in Stockholm to change the apartment around a bit. I wanted to clear the books out of Stieg’s office, which is also the guest room, and rearrange the furniture. So his whole life passed through my hands. Sorting out his beloved books, his warmth and insatiable curiosity became tangible, and I kept stopping to cry awhile. I got back to work, but tearful despair struck again, a rolling gray sea pouring out of me. I’m sad, so infinitely sad.
Tuesday, April 5
THIS AFTERNOON I sent an email to Joakim to tell him that after calling the tax authorities to ask for an extension regarding filing the estate taxes, I’d been given until June 16. Anything longer than that would have had to be requested in writing. I also explained to Joakim that I hadn’t yet dared face sorting through Stieg’s papers, but that all the receipts would still have to be found.
I added that I was intending to ask for help from the guy in charge of accounting where Stieg worked, because the receipts to be used as deductions had to be separated from the ones representing expenses for which he’d already been reimbursed. Since the accountant had already helped him with his previous tax returns, he’d be familiar with the problem.
I also shared with Joakim the fact that I was seeing my therapist every two weeks, which I definitely felt was a good thing, because as he said himself, that’s how you can learn to know yourself better. Which was perhaps vital right now, when I no longer much knew who I was.
I added that I wasn’t very strong these days and sometimes had to stay home from work. And that I missed Stieg unspeakably, but I knew he wanted me to keep going and not give up on everything he’d begun. Easy to say, but so hard to do, after losing half of myself.
I closed by asking him to say hello to Maj for me, to take care of himself and not overwork, because he shouldn’t end up like Stieg just because, like Stieg, he couldn’t bring himself to say “no.”
I received no reply to my email. One month later, I understood why.
Monday, May 9
THIS MORNING I received a letter from the tax authorities marked “For your information.” I am thereby informed that, regarding the inventory of Stieg’s assets and the distribution of his estate sent to them on April 14 by Joakim and Erland, everything goes to them—including Stieg’s half of our apartment. They’re giving Joakim’s children 100,000 kronor each ($15,000) from the advance offered by Norstedts and are leaving me the furniture, valued at 1,200 kronor (less than $200)! Then I remembered that on April 13, when I’d phoned Erland to find out what was happening, he’d said he had no idea and that I ought to call Joakim instead, because he was the one taking care of everything. Erland was cold and distant. The next day, the two of them sent the inheritors’ division of the estate off to the tax authorities.
What an insult to Stieg! To his life, to our life for thirty-two years! I’m wracked with anger, outrage, panic, and despair. If Erland and Joakim demand Stieg’s half of the apartment from me, I couldn’t afford to buy it from them. Where will I go?
Before taking the train to Falun, I called Per-Erik Nilsson to tell him about this infamous “For your information.” So far, he hadn’t done a thing for me! But he promised me he would now intervene on my behalf.
Saturday, May 14
I PHONE Svante Weyler to let him know that while filing some papers, I’d finally found the original contract Stieg signed, a document Weyler had been pestering me about back in December. Strangely, though, it no longer interests him at all. He even says something unbelievable to me: that the best solution would have been for Norstedts to manage Stieg’s literary legacy.
IN THE days that follow, my sister Britt calls me. She wants me to authorize her to speak to Erland about that letter from the tax authorities. When I won’t allow her to get involved, she finally blurts out, “Eva, I know something you don’t and that I didn’t want to tell you earlier, because you were in no condition to hear it.” On the evening of Stieg’s funeral service, on December 10, 2004, someone came over to Britt to tell her, “Watch out, they’ve already talked about taking it all.” I stand there, paralyzed, clutching my cell phone. So everything had already been decided.
Britt did try to talk to Erland. He told her that I was mentally ill. The proof? That I wanted to give money to Expo! “And a foundation in Stieg’s memory—what do you think of that?” she asked him. Long silence. In fact, he doesn’t want any money given to anyone. Conclusion: Stieg must also have been mentally ill, since he was the one who wanted Expo to receive some money.
When the news of these developments got around, I began receiving wonderful messages from my friends. Some of them even offered to be my guarantor so I could borrow money to buy Stieg’s half of our apartment from his family. That’s when I realized that at least I was rich … in friendship.
STIEG HAS been gone now for seven months. I’m barely starting to recover. Today I talked with Gruvstad, the therapist, about this deeply rooted belief I’ve had ever since childhood: a great happiness is always followed by a misfortune that is just as intense. She assured me that this isn’t true and that I mustn’t always be afraid of being punished if I feel good. I came home with a (very) tiny sensation of lightness. I took out a new lamp of yellow glass I’d bought, set it on the glossy white windowsill, and turned it on for the first time. Then I put together a whatnot, an étagère for Stieg’s office, and on it I placed three pictures: the black-and-white photograph of him as a child with his grandparents, in front of their little wooden house; the photo I’d taken of the inside of their kitchen when we went back there; and a snapshot of me. I looked at Stieg and asked him to watch over me. Then I started crying again, with my head hanging, for a long time.
Tuesday, June 7
THROUGH THE Föreningsbanken in Umeå, where the Larssons live, I received a bankbook representing what is left—after they’d helped themselves—of a building society account Stieg had: 1,290.63 kronor, or $181.41. What humiliation. What contempt. Aside from that bankbook, no other news from Erland or Joakim.
Friday, June 10
WENT TO Handelsbanken to take out enough from our joint account, Stieg’s and mine, to pay the 8,640 kronor ($1,282) due the lawyers for their inventory of Stieg’s assets. Of the 30,000 kronor that remained, I took 15,000 ($2,250) without informing the estate. I couldn’t care less. I don’t want to have anything more do to with the Larssons.
What I’d like to see passed is a legislative amendment to the law on concubinage. I don’t want other people to suffer the same injustice I did! I called Ronny Olander, a Swedish MP in the Social Democratic Party, and Gustav Fridolin, a Green Party MP. The latter was so shaken by my story that he asked me to send him an email right away with full details.
Saturday, June 11
WHILE GETTING ready to refinish the floor in Stieg’s office, I carried piles of papers into the living room, and so came across some documents from the Ikano Bank. I’d completely forgotten that I’d transferred Stieg’s life insurance policy there. Now I can get money to pay for the trip from Falun to Stockholm to attend the first executive meeting of Expo’s new board next Thursday. For travel during the day, the ticket costs more, going from 26 to 69 euros (from $34 to $91). I didn’t have enough in my account and won’t get my next paycheck for two weeks.
THE REFINISHED floor is a disaster! I have to call the supplier of the compound used to fill in the cracks. It’s really a miserable chore to make this room over, but I must do it. I can’t subcontract this job. One can’t farm out grief. What with shifting around all I have left of Stieg, various objects and books, he’s everywhere in the apartment. And that reminds me of all the things he was interested in, all he did, all he cared about so passionately.… It moves me and upsets me, and it hurts.
Saturday, July 2
I REDID the floor. I’ve wept nonstop over these few square feet of wood, the tears trickling down between the floorboards on which I knelt, slaving away. What a hell. But why didn’t I do this when Stieg was alive? He would have been so happy to have the floor looking nice. I do have to make over this room now, though, to have a place where I can finish my book on Hallman and organize the Stieg Larsson Foundation I hope to create. And for that I’ll need to be able to hang on to the apartment! The constant anguish I live in is just awful. Per-Erik Nilsson made an offer to the Larssons and to Svante Weyler at Norstedts: that I should manage Stieg’s literary estate. And he raised the question of the apartment. Deafening silence. Since March, nothing from the Larssons, nothing from Norstedts.
DURING JULY, I learn that a Millennium audiobook edition is due to come out. I remember Weyler mentioning this in December 2004. But there was no contract for audiobooks between Stieg and Norstedts.…
Wednesday, July 20
FIRST WEEK of vacation. I’ve learned that an offer for the film rights of the trilogy from Strix, a Swedish television production company with major dealings in the Nordic countries, has been rejected by Norstedts, which wants a bigger suitor. I took another look at the contract Norstedts has for Stieg’s crime novels to see if they really control those rights. And no, they don’t. There’s nothing there about any audiobooks, either. After talking with friends and colleagues in publishing, Stieg had in fact decided not to let Norstedts be the agent for film rights to his work. If a film adaptation of the trilogy became a possibility, he wanted to make any decisions about that two or three years down the line, after the first book had come out, meaning in around 2007–2008. Stieg intended to find an agent and a production company in the United States, to make sure any film would be a top-quality product. So in that contract Stieg signed in April 2004, he didn’t check off the box for film rights. What’s more, strangely enough, outside of the separate agreement giving the Pan Agency (the Norstedts foreign rights department) the right to sell the novels abroad, the main contract deals only with a paperback edition.
Puzzling over this oddity, I found an explanation: when it was time to sign the contracts, the two separate documents were presented to Stieg for his signature, but no one realized that the second one was actually both contracts, stapled together by mistake. The first document concerned the paperback rights, and Stieg signed the last page, so that contract is valid. When he signed the last page of the second document, which was supposed to be the main publishing contract, he was really signing only the Pan Agency contract again. So Stieg never signed the principal contract. Stieg and I never noticed, and neither did Norstedts.
I could imagine what happened then. After Stieg’s death, when Norstedts discovered the problem, they had Erland and Joakim sign a new contract so that they’d have a free hand and could get the books out quickly. Further contracts must have been signed later to allow the publisher to sell the film rights. All supposition, of course. Anyway, no one who knows Stieg would believe that he’d let his family or publisher control his work or his image. That’s completely absurd—he was way too independent for that! Which is why it’s so important to me to obtain contol of the intellectual property rights to all his work. I’m thinking above all of his articles for Expo, for Searchlight, his books on the far right, and so forth.
I’VE FINISHED packing for my second week of vacation. Tomorrow I take off into the archipelago. I’m supplied with half a pound of Lipton tea, some mustard, tomato pasta, couscous, salt and pepper, oil, vinegar, and dishwashing liquid, which I’ve put into little jars from my pantry.
Plus my Koala Macintosh and a pad of paper in a leatherette folder. I have of course hooked the compass and survival knife onto my Klättermusen jacket. And slipped the can of mace into a pocket.
Thursday, August 4
A PERVASIVE melancholy came over me on July 19 during my first week of vacation without Stieg, and I can’t escape it anymore. It’s everywhere. I see it in the summer evening light as orange melts into gold, ocher, and copper. The life I knew is over. The one I used to imagine will never be. I’d like all this to end quickly. Rather than wait for nothing in particular.…
Wednesday, August 10
PER-ERIK NILSSON phoned to ask me if I’d read his agreement proposal. He says he did his best to look after my interests. “You’re sure that your chief concern is control of the intellectual property, and not the money?” Yes, I assured him, once again.
Friday, August 12
TOWARD THE end of the day, Svante Weyler finally answered my question about the film rights: Erland and Joakim did in fact sign a contract with Norstedts. Absolutely infuriated, I left a message for Per-Erik Nilsson to let him know that contrary to what he’d been told at Norstedts, the contract had definitely been signed.
A FEW days later, I would read an article in the Sydsvenska Dagbladet announcing that The Millennium Trilogy would soon be adapted for film by the Swedish film company Yellow Bird.
Tuesday, August 16
I FINALLY called Joakim to find out about the apartment. He suggested something that was simply beyond belief, saying the problem would be solved if we were to use the apartment jointly … but that this certainly wouldn’t interest me!
Only then did he tell me they were finally going to give me their half of the apartment—and added that he was so fed up with handling all of Stieg’s paperwork that I would have to cope with the red tape involved. Do I dare believe him?
DURING THE following week I went with Britt to see our old neighbors in Önnesmark, where we grew up, not far from Umeå. We wanted to see Stieg’s father and brother, but every time Britt called them, they said they were too busy. We were finally able to meet with them in a restaurant in town. They kept sticking to small talk, so after an hour of that I bluntly announced that we had something to discuss: the best way to manage Stieg’s work. After a moment’s thought, Joakim explained that they were afraid that if I had control of the intellectual property, this might be in conflict with the film company’s rights to develop the characters in The Millennium Trilogy. No matter what Britt and I brought up, he kept replying that he would have to talk first with Svante Weyler. Then he reaffirmed their decision to give me their half of the apartment, but repeated that I would have to take care of the formalities.
As we were saying goodbye near the bus stop, Erland began to explain to me that the problem lay in the fact that I might get married someday, which posed a risk for them. “Stieg was the one I wanted to marry,” I replied. Then Joakim suggested that I marry Erland, which would solve all of the problems concerning the division of the estate. I just froze … and Britt stared at him in horror. Of course, he added, this marriage would only be on paper!
Tuesday, August 23
AN EMAIL from Svante Weyler. Ole Søndberg, a producer at Yellow Bird, which bought the Millennium film rights, would like to meet me. They’re about to begin writing the screenplay and are eagerly seeking any information that might help them. Weyler also said that the reviews of Stieg’s first book are fantastic, that he couldn’t imagine a better début.
So from now on, I know:
Joakim is a double-dealer, acting in bad faith.
Erland is supporting him, because Joakim—not Stieg—is the son he always considered his.
Consequences:
Permanently break off relations with Erland and Joakim.
Do as Stieg said: “Avenge your friends.”
Seek help from other people.
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.
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.
Friday, November 25
AT AROUND seven thirty, the delivery from Ikea was waiting for me at home. Beds, mattresses, sheets, pillowcases, and duvet covers … all there!
Went straight back out to buy the caster wheels for the beds in a store in Fridhemsplan, on Kungsholmen. Not the ones I’d planned on, since the holes turned out to be too near the edge, but similar ones, gray, instead of the taller, more slender ones of black wood that I had envisioned.
Saturday, November 26
I WENT to fetch my drill at a friend’s house. To drill the holes, I have to clamp the feet in the workbench vise and use a 3.5 mm bit and 4 mm screws. I quickly realized I’d have to gauge the measurements with a longer screw I found in a drawer. I began attaching the feet to the first bed frame, which I installed in the “new” room. Mattress, duvet and pillowcases, satin sheets in black, white, gray, and ocher checks. I rolled the daybed over near the window and settled onto it with cushions at my back to watch Lake Mälaren flow quietly below through the Hammarby Canal. I sat there, in silence and tranquility, for a long while.
I put together and finished the second daybed and set it at an angle along the wall, facing the first one. Perfect. Now I have a room that matches my new life. An office for work, a living room where my guests can relax after dinner, and a guest room for friends passing through. I arranged Stieg’s books on teak shelves near the window.
And then I slept there. Slept very well. All those books around me made me feel as if I were sleeping at the center of a benevolent world.
December
AT SOME point in December, Joakim phoned Britt to tell her, among other things, that if I published the fourth volume, Norstedts would not publish the second and third ones.
Britt explained to him that the computer supposedly containing more of the Millennium saga was the property of Expo, not Stieg. Clearly, this computer has become an obsession for the Larssons! A few days later, their lawyer wrote to Expo to find out where the computer was. (This question would be raised at the Expo board meeting in January 2006, and the answer, delivered at the end of that same month, would be: “We don’t know.”)
Expecting to be driven at any moment from my apartment, I began packing my belongings in cardboard boxes. I’m handling the situation well, though, and there isn’t anything anymore that’s too painful for me to consider or imagine. I’ve recovered my balance and my inner compass. My therapist even says that I’m making particularly rapid progress.
IT’S TIME to write the epilogue for this year just past. First, though, I must compose a summary of my life with Stieg. I cry as I write “I was loved” because, in the end, that’s the only thing that counts.
AFTER ONE year
I wait for a call that never comes
His number in my cell phone
I wait for a smile I never get
His photo on my wall
I wait for a caress I never feel
His jacket in my closet
But I hear his voice answer me
When my despair is at its worst.
WHEN STIEG died, I had but one objective, as I wrote on a piece of paper: “To survive.” For 2006, I write these words: “To learn how to live again.”