A Darker Shade of Sweden (21 page)

“How?”

She made a helpless gesture. I held her close and kissed her. For the first time I realized how unbelievably lucky I really had been to find a wife like Judith.

“Where are the kids?” I asked her.

“They weren't allowed to come. They're too young to understand this kind of thing, they told me.”

“Too young . . .” I felt bitter.

“I'll take care of them.”

I pulled her down on the bed.

“Michael . . . Wester, that man out there, he says they might be able to freeze your brain and wake it again later.”

“But my body will be ten years older, or even much more than that. At the very least I'll have lost years of my life. And besides, I don't believe they'll give me my body back even when Zägel has finished his work. He would still have maybe fifty years left to live in it, and I suspect the government won't feel like wasting those years on me.”

I kissed her again, softly at first, then hard and demanding.

“We have two hours. Would you? One last time?”

I began undressing her. We touched and teased each other, fondled and urged each other on. Finally we tumbled down on the bed and made love more tenderly and intensely than ever before. It was my last time, and I had never before felt a greater passion, never before realized how much I truly loved living. My last time. I could hardly assume that Judith would live in celibacy for the rest of her life because I was no longer there. Perhaps she would marry again. In that case, who? I couldn't bear thinking about that.

We melted together.

Afterwards we lay talking. Judith smoked one of her cigarettes. I caressed her thoughtfully. Strangely enough, neither of us felt any despair or fear despite what would happen. We were both very calm and spoke mostly of things in the same way we used to do when I was going off to some training camp and would be gone for a couple of weeks. We talked just as if I would be back after a while.

They let us stay together for more than two hours, but after three, one of the guards knocked on my door, stuck his head in and told us to get ready to say goodbye. We dressed, or at least she did, and we said our goodbyes. Then we sat holding each other until they came back in through the door.

They closed the door behind Judith, and one of the men stayed inside trying to talk to me. I didn't want to. I just lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling, remembering Judith's lips.

At half past four the other guard came back and told me to make myself ready. I had half an hour. He wondered if I would like to talk to a priest, but I told him no. Then a nurse came and shaved my head.

I was hungry, but they wouldn't allow me to eat. At five sharp a nurse rolled in a hospital bed and asked me to lie down on it so she could roll me off to surgery.

“The hell I will,” I told her. “I've got legs to walk on, and if this is my last trip, at least I'll walk it myself.”

None of them objected. I stood, put my shorts on and followed the nurse. The guards walked behind me. When we stepped into the hallway, I thought of trying to escape again, but I knew it would be pointless. They would have caught me in a few minutes. So I stepped into the lift instead. Another hallway, more swinging doors. Then I stood in the operating room. There were half a dozen people, all of them busy preparing for the operation.

Mark Wester came up to me. He nodded and asked me to lie down. There were two operating tables in the room. A man already lay on one of them. I assumed him to be Zägel, and for a second or two I was filled with the thought of rushing up to him, crushing his head, beating his brain to a pulp. Wester broke the spell by grabbing hold of my arm and walking me to my table. I lay down and someone covered my body with a mauve sheet.

“Let me thank you for all your assistance and cooperation,” Wester said. “Thank you.”

I felt the sting of a needle in my arm.

The last thing I remember was hating him. Hating him. Hating . . .

Born in the small town of Skelleftehamn in 1954, Stieg Larsson grew up at his maternal grandparents' house in a village of less than fifty inhabitants, only rejoining his parents at the age of nine after the death of his grandfather. He moved out to live on his own at sixteen and from eighteen until his death was in a relationship with fellow political activist and science fiction fan, and later architect, Eva Gabrielsson. They were both active in science fiction fandom throughout the 1970s. After moving to Stockholm in 1977, Larsson worked as a graphic artist with a news agency during the 1980s and 1990s, but simultaneously became known in Sweden as a leading opponent of racist and totalitarian views, on which he published several books in addition to being the Scandinavian correspondent for the British antifascist
Searchlight
magazine. In 1995, he was involved in founding the similar Swedish magazine
Expo,
of which he was the editor from 1999 until his death. Hoping since his teens to break through as a fiction writer, Larsson in 2002 began writing a series of crime novels taking their basic theme from his feminist and antitotalitarian convictions. He died of a sudden heart attack in November 2004. By that time, he had finished and sold the three first novels featuring journalist Mikael Blomkvist and expert hacker Lisbeth Salander, and was working on further books in the series. The three finished novels, called The Millennium Trilogy, were published in Sweden in 2005 to 2007 and made publishing history. They have appeared in more than fifty countries, selling a total of seventy-five million copies to date, making them the best-selling adult novels in the world during the first decade of the twenty-first century; they have also been made into both Swedish and American feature movies. The first novel in the series,
Män som hatar kvinnor (Men Who Hate Women,
but in English published as
The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo)
was awarded the Glass Key as the year's best crime novel in any Nordic country by the Nordic Crime Fiction Society; the second,
Flickan som lekte med elden
(
The Girl Who Played with Fire),
received the best novel of the year award from the Swedish Crime Fiction Academy; the third,
Luftslottet som sprängdes
(
The Girl Who Kicked the Hornets' Nest),
again received the Glass Key. The novels have also received numerous awards in other countries.

AN UNLIKELY MEETING

H
ENNING
M
ANKELL
AND
H
ÅKAN
N
ESSER

Henning Mankell and HÃ¥kan Nesser are two of the giants of modern Swedish crime fiction, both also known and highly respected for their nongenre work.

Henning Mankell published his first crime novel
(
and his eleventh book
)
in 1991. It introduced his recurring protagonist, Detective ­Inspector Kurt Wallander of the Ystad police. He has since returned in ten further novels and one story collection, which have made the small town of
Ystad—situated on the south coast of Sweden, where it was founded as a fishing village in the late twelve century and with just over 18,000 inhabitants—internationally famous. In one of the novels,
Before the Frost
(
originally published in 2002
)
, the main protagonist is Wallander's daughter, Linda, newly graduated from the police academy.

HÃ¥kan Nesser's first crime novel was
Det grovmaskiga nätet
(
The Mind's Eye),
which appeared in Swedish in 1993. It introduced Detective Chief Inspector Van Veeteren in the fictitious town of Maardam, placed in an also fictitious, unnamed country in Northern Europe and with similarities to the Nether­lands, Sweden, Germany, and Poland. Van Veeteren is in his early sixties at the start of the series; in the first five novels he is on active duty, but in the later ones he has retired from the police and instead works as an antiquarian bookseller but still assists in police investigations. He is a sullen, cynical man and an avid chess player.

After ten Van Veeteren novels, HÃ¥kan Nesser changed venue and has written six novels featuring a Swedish police Inspector of Italian descent, Gunnar Barbarotti, and several stand-alone novels. Like Henning Mankell, he is widely translated. Together, the two authors have received one Best First Novel Award and no less than five Best Novel of the Year Awards from the Swedish Crime Fiction Academy.

“An Unlikely Meeting” is their only collaboration, a fascinating metafiction of a strange night in the lives of their two most famous protagonists. Readers should also know that HÃ¥kan Nesser is tall, thin, with dark, thinning hair, while Henning Mankell is short, heavily built, with fairly long, white-gray hair.

SUDDENLY WALLANDER REALIZED THAT HE NO LONGER KNEW WHERE HE
was. Why couldn't she have come to Ystad instead? On the freeway, somewhere north of Kassel, he had doubted if it was even possible to drive on any longer. The snow had come down very heavy. Already then he had known that he would be late for his meeting with his daughter. Why did Linda have to suggest that they should spend Christmas together somewhere in the middle of Europe?

He turned on the roof light in the car and found his map. In the beam lights the road stretched empty. Where had he made a wrong turn? Around him was darkness. He had a sudden premonition of being forced to spend Christmas night in his car. He would drive blindly along these unknown continental roads and he would never find Linda.

He searched the map. Was he even anywhere at all? Or had he crossed some invisible border to a country that didn't even exist? He put away his map and drove on. The snow had suddenly stopped falling.

After a dozen miles he stopped at an intersection. He read the signs and searched the map again. Nothing. He made a sudden decision. He would have to find someone to ask. He turned off towards the town the road signs claimed to be closest.

The town was larger than he had expected. But its streets were deserted. Wallander stopped outside a restaurant that seemed to be open. He locked his car and realized that he was hungry.

He stepped into the dusk.

The restaurant was a breath of a Europe that hardly existed any more. Frozen in time, a strong smell of stale cigar smoke. Deer heads and coats of arms shared the brown walls with beer posters. A bar, also brown, empty of patrons; shaded booths, similar to the pens in a barn. At the tables shadows leaned over glasses of beer. In the background, loudspeakers. Christmas songs. Holy night.

Wallander looked around without finding an empty booth. A glass of beer, he thought. Then a good description of how to drive on. Then a phone call to Linda. To tell her whether he'd make it tonight or not.

One of the booths was occupied by a single man. Wallander hesitated. Then made up his mind. He walked up and pointed. The man nodded. It was okay for Wallander to sit down. The man sitting opposite him was eating. An old, sad-faced waiter appeared. Goulash? Wallander pointed to the other man's plate and beer glass. Then he waited. The man opposite went on eating with slow movements.

Wallander thought that he might start a conversation. Ask about the way, ask where he was. He took the opportunity when the man pushed his plate away.

“I don't mean to disturb you,” Wallander said. “But do you speak English?”

The man nodded noncommittally.

“I've taken a wrong turn somewhere,” Wallander said. “I'm Swedish, I'm a policeman, I'm on my way to spend Christmas with my daughter. But I'm lost. I don't even know where I am.”

“Maardam,” the man said.

Wallander recalled the road sign. But he had no memory of having seen the place on his map. He told the man his destination.

The man shook his head.

“You won't get there tonight,” he said. “It's far. You're off course.”

Then he smiled. His smile was unexpected. As if his face had cracked.

“I'm a policeman, too,” the man said.

Wallander gave him a thoughtful look. Then he held out his hand.

“Wallander,” he said. “I'm a detective. In a Swedish town called Ystad.”

“Van Veeteren,” the man said. “I'm a policeman here in Maardam.”

“Two lonely policeman,” Wallander said. “One of them lost. Not the most amusing of situations.”

Van Veeteren smiled again, nodding.

“You're right,” he said. “Two policemen meeting only because one of them has made a wrong turn.”

“Things are as they are,” Wallander said.

The waiter put his food on the table in front of him.

Van Veeteren lifted his glass, toasting him.

“Eat slowly,” he said. “You're in no hurry.”

Wallander thought of Linda. Of his having to call her. But he realized that the man who also was a policeman and who had a weird name was right.

He would spend his Christmas Eve in this strange place called Maardam and which he suspected wasn't even marked on his map.

Things were as they were.

Nobody could change that.

Just as so many other things in life.

Wallander placed his call to Linda, who of course was disappointed. But she understood.

After the call, Wallander stayed on outside the phone booth.

The Christmas songs made him sad.

He disliked sadness. Particularly on Christmas Eve.

Outside, the snow had begun falling again.

Van Veeteren remained sitting in their pen, his eyes fixed on two crossed toothpicks. How strange, he thought. I almost could have sworn that I wouldn't need to exchange even two words with anyone until the Christmas dawn's early gleaming . . . and then this guy suddenly turns up.

A Swedish policeman? Taking the wrong road in a snowstorm?

Just as unlikely as life itself. And that he himself was sitting here certainly wasn't the result of any planning. Quite the contrary. After the obligatory Christmas lunch with Renate and the afternoon best wishes telephone call to Erich, Jess and the grandchildren, he had crawled into a bubble bath with a stout beer and Handel turned up full. While waiting for the evening to come.

Christmas Eve chess with Mahler at the society.

Just like last year. And the year before that.

Mahler had called shortly before six. From the hospital up in Aarlack, where the old poet was stuck with his even older father and a broken thighbone.

A pity for such a vital ninety-year-old man. A pity considering the gambit he had thought of while taking his bath. A pity all things considered.

When despite all he had finally arrived at the society in the whirling snow he had also realized that it was no use to him without Mahler. He had driven on a few blocks towards Zwille and finally walked into the restaurant without any expectations. Regardless of everything else he had to eat. And perhaps drink.

The Swedish policeman returned with a sad smile.

“Did you reach her? What did you say your name was, by the way?”

“Wallander. Yes, it's fine. We just postponed everything until tomorrow.”

There was a sudden soft warmth in his glance and there could hardly be any doubt about its origin.

“Daughters aren't such a bad thing to have sometimes,” Van Veeteren said. “Even if you can't find them. How many do you have?”

“Only one,” Wallander said. “But she's all right.”

“Me too,” Van Veeteren said. “And a son too but that's something else.”

“Doesn't surprise me,” Wallander said.

The sad waiter appeared, asking about what was to follow.

“Personally I prefer beer when alone,” Van Veeteren said. “And wine with company.”

“Ought to think about where to spend the night,” Wallander said.

“I've already done that,”
Van Veeteren stated. “Red or white?”

“Thanks,” Wallander said. “Red it is, then.”

The waiter again disappeared into the shadows. A brief silence fell at the table while an Ave Maria of unknown origin began playing from the speakers.

“Why did you become a policeman?” Wallander asked.

Van Veeteren studied his colleague before answering.

“I've asked myself that question so many times by now that I can't remember the answer any longer,” he said. “But I'd guess you to be ten years younger, so maybe you know?”

Wallander gave a half smile and leaned back.

“Yes,” he said. “Though I'd have to admit that there are times when I have to stop to remind myself. It's all this evil; I'm planning to exterminate it. The only problem is that it seems we have built an entire civilization on it.”

“Or at least some major supports,” Van Veeteren said, nodding. “Though I would have thought Sweden to be spared at least the worst aberrations . . . your Swedish model, your spirit of consensus . . . well, it's what you read about, anyway.”

“I used to believe in all that, too,” Wallander said. “But that was a few years ago.”

The waiter returned with a bottle of red wine and a few pieces of cheese, courtesy of the house. Ave Maria ended and muted strings began playing.

Wallander raised his glass but stopped in the middle of moving, listening hard.

“Do you recognize that?” he asked.

Van Veeteren nodded. “Villa-Lobos,” he said. “What's the name of it?”

“I don't know,” Wallander said. “But it's a piece for eight cellos and one soprano. It's damned lovely. Listen.”

They sat without speaking.

“We seem to have some things in common,” Wallander said.

Van Veeteren nodded contentedly.

“So it seems,” he said. “If you play chess as well I'll be damned if I believe you're not just something someone's made up.”

Wallander drank. Then he shook his head.

“Damned badly,” he admitted. “I'm better at bridge, but hardly a champion at that either.”

“Bridge?” Van Veeteren said and cut off a third of the Camembert. “Haven't played that in thirty years. Back in those days we used to be four.”

Wallander smiled and gave a slight nod towards another table.

“Back there are a couple of guys with a deck of cards.”

Van Veeteren leaned out of the booth to check.

Wallander was right. In a booth a few yards away two other men were flipping cards back and forth, looking bored. One of them was tall, thin and slightly stooped. The other one was almost his opposite: short, heavy and with a dogged expression. Judging from wrinkles and hair they were both close to fifty years old.

Van Veeteren stood.

“All right,” he said. “It's only Christmas once a year. Let's make our move.”

Less than ten minutes later the bidding was under way and after a further twenty-five minutes Wallander and Van Veeteren had won a doubled bid of four spades.

“Vagaries of chance,” the shorter of the two men muttered.

“Even a blind hen sometimes finds a grain of corn,” the taller one explained.

“Two,” Van Veeteren said. “Two blind hens.”

Wallander shuffled the cards with slightly unpracticed hands.

“And what do you two do for a living?” Van Veeteren asked, accepting an offered cigarette.

“Writers,” the tall one said.

“Crime novels,” added the shorter one. “We are fairly well-known. At least back home. Or at least I. We lost our way—that's why we happen to be here.”

“Many have lost their way tonight,” Van Veeteren said.

“Crime writers often lose their way,” Wallander noted and began dealing the cards. “I suppose that's another pretty rotten line of work.”

“I don't doubt it,” Van Veeteren said.

They were about halfway through the next hand—an undoubled three no trump contract with the fairly well-known author as declarer—when the waiter appeared unasked from the shadows. He looked pained.

“Might I just inform you,” he said subserviently, “that we'll be closing in ten minutes. It's Christmas Eve.”

“What the heck . . . ?” Wallander said.

“What the hell?” Van Veeteren said.

The tall crime writer coughed and waved a dismissing index finger. But it was the short, well-known one who spoke.

“In that case, might I just in turn inform you,” he said without the slightest tone of subservience, “that there is at least one advantage to being a writer . . .”