In 2005, the first of Stieg Larsson’s novels was published in Sweden, and by the time the second appeared in 2006, their success was already enormous. By the turn of the century, crime fiction in Sweden had been a thriving field, with a growing number of new writers adding diversity to what for almost thirty years had been a form strongly dominated by male authors writing about largely male police collectives. After the Stieg Larsson novels, the annual number of original Swedish crime novels has increased to an unprecedented number, currently around 120. A negative aspect of this is that since the total number of crime fiction titles remains largely unchanged, a diminishing number of foreign crime novels are translated into Swedish, making Swedish readers miss out on important new writers and trends, as well as depriving Swedish crime fiction writers not conversant in other languages the inspiration of new literary and thematic developments. On the other hand, by now it also seems obvious that the Stieg Larsson novels themselves led to lasting changes in Swedish crime writing.
Since the early part of the twentieth century, Swedish literature as a whole was dominated by the notion that, to be taken seriously, a literary work should be realistic, deal primarily with either psychological or social issues, and show restraint in its portrayals of characters and events. This view of literature spread also to include “good” entertainment literature, while works not conforming to it were more or less automatically considered inferior by reason of their insufficient realism. Perhaps one result of this is the fact that science fiction never managed to get a lasting foothold in Sweden; by not dealing explicitly with the here and now, it was viewed as primarily “escape” fiction, which was by definition neither good art nor worthwhile literature. When applied to crime fiction, the result of this view was that the field as a whole can be characterized by its restraint and by its lack of imaginative freedom: in a field where social concerns and down-to-earth realism are primary virtues, there is no room for villains like Hannibal Lecter, heroes like Jack Reacher, or plots like those of Mickey Spillane.
Perhaps it took a writer like Stieg Larsson, whose favorite reading was American and British science fiction and crime fiction, and who paid no particular heed to the traditions upheld in the Swedish literary establishment, to write a work so completely un-Swedish—in its main characters, its action, its graphic sex and violence, and its sheer joy of imaginative storytelling—as the Millennium trilogy. The critical and popular triumph of the novels meant that later writers were suddenly freed from many of the previous taboos, which in fact hark back to the early-twentieth-century modernist rejection of the linear plot structure, heroism, moralism, and romanticism of earlier literature, which the modernists considered outdated and unsuited to cosmopolitan and urban civilization.
Consequently, in the last few years, Swedish crime fiction has suddenly been enriched by innovative authors writing in totally new ways. Karin Alfredsson and Katarina Wennstam, publishing their first novels in 2006 and 2007, write on the subjects of men’s subjugation of women and homophobia, and are perhaps the two current writers whose main concerns are closest to the underlying theme of Stieg Larsson’s novels; Alfredsson, using her physician protagonist Ellen Elg as a unifying link in her first five novels, has examined the horrifying situation of women in five different countries; Wennstam, in her highly accomplished crime novels, has dealt with trafficking, police brutality towards their domestic partners, sexual harassment in the movie business, and homophobia in sports. Lawyer Jens Lapidus, writing since 2006, is stylistically and thematically inspired by James Ellroy in his depictions of gang violence and corruption in the Stockholm suburbs, and has brought a unique voice to Swedish crime fiction. Johan Theorin, whose first novel was published in 2007, is a highly literary writer often combining crime plots with both regionalism and elements of fantasy, mythology, and horror. Dag Öhrlund, making his debut in the same year, writes violent crime thrillers much in the American hard-boiled tradition, and has created the first genius serial killer in Swedish crime fiction. Starting in 2009, the writing team Alexandra and Alexander Ahndoril, under their joint pen name Lars Kepler, write fast, imaginative, and moody action novels featuring both heroes and villains larger than life. Security expert Anders de la Motte’s crime novels, starting with [geim] in 2010, are characterized by intricate, mazelike plotting and by a nerdy, half-criminal, and computer-savvy slacker protagonist who is anything but typically Swedish. Håkan Axlander Sundquist and Jerker Eriksson, under their joint pen name Erik Axl Sund and debuting in 2010, have so far published only one huge, three-volume novel; an intricate, hypnotically enthralling story of obsession, vengeance, psychoanalysis, and redemption which is an unmistakably central work in current Swedish crime fiction. Even later, Christoffer Carlsson is a highly unconventional, noir-inspired author whose three novels so far show huge promise, while writer team Rolf and Cilla Börjlind published their first crime novel in 2012: dark, atmospheric, and with one of the most original protagonist couples since that of Stieg Larsson; the Börjlinds, in creating their two detectives, are both playing with, parodying, and rising above the conventions of the form.
Given the proliferation of new writers; its sudden freedom from earlier restraints on themes, style, and elements; and its great popularity among readers, Swedish crime fiction today is at both an enormously exciting and a chaotic stage of its ongoing development.
Ancient controversies have resurfaced—how much graphic description of violence, murder, or sex should be “acceptable” in fiction; how much literary experimentation should be “condoned” in a crime novel; how much adherence to the field’s traditions of rational deduction should you “demand” of a crime novel; can supernatural events or plot elements be part of a crime novel? This makes for often heated and fascinating discussions, not least in the awards committees of the Swedish Crime Fiction Academy.
But despite the controversies, and despite the fact—not previously stated, but nevertheless fundamental—that the majority of crime novels in Sweden (as in all countries) remain both fairly undistinguished and are written in one or other of the already established traditions of the field, the future of Swedish crime fiction seems bright. And considering its sudden global appeal, there is also reason to believe that it will continue to attract talented, innovative, and original writers who will widen and enrich it even further.
After that optimistic thought, I won’t keep you any longer. In the following pages, you will meet many of the writers who have shaped the Swedish crime fiction field as it exists today and a few who I believe will help shape it tomorrow. I hope you will enjoy getting to know them, and reading the stories they have to tell.
John-Henri Holmberg
Viken, July 2013
REUNION
TOVE ALSTERDAL
Before publishing her first novel in 2009, Tove Alsterdal worked mainly as a journalist and playwright. As with most writers, her experiences are many and varied. She was born in Malmö but has lived mainly in Stockholm; nevertheless, she also has roots in the far north of Sweden, in Tornedalen, an area close to the Swedish border with Finland and largely north of the Arctic Circle. This was where her mother grew up, and Tove Alsterdal returns there for summers. It is the setting of her latest novel, I tystnaden begravd (Buried in Silence), runner-up for the 2012 Best Novel of the Year Award given by the Swedish Crime Fiction Academy. She walked horses at the Stockholm outdoor museum Skansen and worked as an aide in the closed wards at Beckomberga mental hospital. Later, she was a radio and TV news reporter, and she wrote scripts for TV dramas and a feature film, stories for computer games, stage plays, and an opera libretto. A close friend of crime author Liza Marklund, she has edited all except the first of Marklund’s crime novels.
Tove Alsterdal’s writing is psychologically acute and full of the settings she knows and loves to re-create on the page. There is often a strong streak of the mystical, seemingly inexplicable, in her work—but one of her great strengths is that she leaves the choice of how to interpret such elements
to her readers, as in this story of a late reunion of teenage friends.
SHE STEPS OUT OF HER CAR AND SLOWLY WALKS DOWN TOWARDS THE lake. It draws her. The paved walkway disappears between a couple of birches and becomes a path. A dizzying feeling of time rushing off, back to then.
Its black waters.
It is the same lake, the same time of summer as it was then. Just before midsummer, before the heat has permeated the ground and the greenery is still tender and young. The water as dark and tempting as in the nightmares she has had ever since. Not always, to be fair. There have been weeks, even years, when she has managed to sleep calmly, as when Lisette was just a baby.
“Ohmygaawd, it’s been so long! Marina! Piiiaaaa!!”
“Agge!”
Two other cars have driven up and parked next to hers. The women yell loud enough to make the famous birdlife flutter up from lake pastures and reeds, take cover deeper into the woods.
She forces a smile and turns to meet them.
“Jojjo, is it really you?” Marina takes the last few steps at a run and hugs her. Watches her face, pushes back a strand of hair. “Shit, you look just the same. You haven’t changed a bit.” She turns to the others, who are unloading baskets and bags full of food from their cars. “Have you seen who’s here already? Johanna!”
They laugh and shout and soon she is wrapped in everyone’s arms, they hug and agree that all are just as they were.
And it’s fabulous to meet again! After thirty years! And you don’t look a day over twenty-five! Well, neither do you! They laugh at absolutely everything. And as they tumble into the tiny scout’s cottage she thinks, how great that I decided to come after all. That I didn’t give in to that feeling of just wanting to hide. There is a warmth between them she had forgotten. They have known each other since such an early age that those thirty years are shed in just a moment. Or so it feels at that particular moment when they are jokingly chattering about who slept in the upper beds that time.
Johanna watches them and wonders which one of them actually came up with the idea of a reunion. She has just assumed that Marina did. Her parents had some kind of connection to the scout organization that owns the cottages. Marina, her hair almost black, though by now she surely must dye it—there are only slight touches of gray that paradoxically make her look younger. Almost more beautiful than she remembers her.
“Didn’t you bring a sleeping bag, Jojjo?” Agge asks when the others are throwing their overnight things on the bunk beds.
“No, I’m not sure if I can . . .” She feels all of their eyes. It was a long time since anyone called her Jojjo. “I have to get up early and . . .”
“What are you saying, aren’t you going to stay the night? Wasn’t that the whole thing?” Agge’s deep voice, always sounding as if something was self-evident. She has put on at least sixty pounds and it’s still impossible to disagree with her. “I’ve got blankets in my car,” she says, “it’ll be all right.”
Johanna nods and smiles. Why did she agree to this? Her first reaction on seeing the invitation was a ringing NO. And yet. Just that someone invited her, remembered her. Pia already has the coffeemaker going. Just as back then she slides in without saying much but still ends up at the center, the prettiest of them all. Tiny, attractive wrinkles around her eyes when she laughs.
“What the hell,” Agge says, “let’s have some champagne.”
And the cork bounces against the ceiling.
The fire is burning, a genuine campfire. Their faces glow. The midsummer dusk is blue and transparent. They pull their sleeping bags around themselves. She knows that she is drinking too fast and too much.
Marina’s idea: that they toast each other, all round. They have toasted Marina’s new executive position at the staffing company and Pia’s new lover who has proposed, third time lucky! They have toasted that Marina has run the women’s six-mile race and that Agge has retrained as a gardener; at last she is living her dream! Here’s to our dreams! Marina has been married for eighteen years and still loves her husband—skål!—and Pia has gotten new tits after her pregnancies—skål to them!—and to all their kids who are all doing so well in school—skål! skål! skål!—and particularly to Agge’s eldest who has been picked for the junior national swim team.
“And what about you, Jojjo, out with it!”
She knows it was a mistake to come here. Her life is nothing you hold up for inspection at reunions. She manages a toast to her daughter, Lisette, getting a job after graduating high school, then slips away, saying that she has to take a trip into the forest.
Nowadays there are toilets behind the cabins, but she does it the way they did back then. Squats down behind a spruce.
A little urine squirts on one of her shoes. Between branches she sees the fire die down to embers and the silhouettes of the middle- aged women around it.
What else could she toast? That she’s divorced and has been unable to find someone new? That her apartment is mute now that Lisette has moved out? She can’t even do Internet dating, since it makes her feel like the last passenger on the late-night bus going home from town, where everyone is desperately grabbing whatever is offered. And she knows that thousands of people are finding love on those sites, so of course it’s all her fault. Like missing the last night bus and being left standing outside in the cold. A toast to that! She sleeps badly, because there will be more cutbacks and nobody knows who will be laid off. And here’s to the body going downhill while time runs out, skål!
As she is pulling her pants up she hears a sound. Branches creaking. Somewhere down by the lake. She breathes silently and stands immobile, her hand on her zipper. Seems to see a shadow between the spruces, a shift in the weak light.
A voice. And everything within her is suddenly cold as ice.
“Have you saved me anything to eat?”
Someone is standing where the spruce forest ends and the shoreline begins. Thin and short. Her hair a flowing blonde tangle. Her green sweater.
“What is it?” Lillis says, laughing. Her face is unnaturally pale. As it was already back when they were playing with death. “Didn’t you think I’d show up?”
I’m dreaming, Johanna thinks, I’m more drunk than I think. It can’t be the same sweater!
“Don’t you want to talk to me?” The figure steps closer to her, head a little askance. “And I always thought we were friends.”
Johanna steps back. “I’m going back to the others,” she says, half running through the forest, a branch scratching her face.
She doesn’t turn round until she is sitting by the fire again. Then she stares at the forest, so long that the others also have to turn around.
“But what the hell . . .” Marina stands. “Lilian! I didn’t even know . . . who managed to get hold of Lillis? Why haven’t you said anything?”
Johanna doesn’t even realize that the question is put to her. She sees the woman come closer. A smile animating her face. Now all the others are standing. Johanna feels that she has to stand as well.
Lillis’ body is cool and thin in her arms. A quick hug. A darkness sweeping in from the lake and night has fallen.
“God, how great to see you.”
“Where did you go? Didn’t you disappear even before we started our senior year?”
Distantly she hears them toast Lillis, as if inside a glass jar. Now, for the first time, she actually sees the others. They aren’t at all as unchanged as they fancied; they have aged. Their skin has lost its grip and is hanging loosely from their chins; the years have dug furrows even in Marina’s once-perfect face. You can tell that they all dye their hair. Only Lillis is still young, entirely smooth and as dangerously and strangely beautiful as she was then. That tiny little squint.
“My God, you haven’t aged a day!” Agge yells. “Skål to that!”
Johanna sees their mouths move and laugh. Lillis’ face is so white that it shines, despite the embers having gone out and everything is cold.
Can’t they see
that it’s wrong?
Lillis, who for a short while was her closest friend. The unreachable whom she incomprehensibly reached, the great happiness of being seen and being allowed in. Lillis, who was an adventurer and a center, one of those around whom the moon and the earth and the boys revolved, while Johanna was a vapid planet at the rim of the solar system. Vaguely she had understood that Lillis needed her, or someone, anyone, by her side. Johanna had never entered the competition, just followed. The first cigarette, the first high on beer and aspirin, the play in the hut where Johanna mostly waited outside while Lillis was making out inside, but anyway. Afterward she was allowed to share her secrets.
Johanna feels the scream grow inside of her, it wants to burst and escape, but she can’t, it isn’t possible. The silence is too huge. It has lasted for thirty years.
Wants to tell the others: But can’t you see, don’t you get it?
She pinches her arm, hard, and it hurts. It’s no nightmare, it’s happening. She has to project it when she looks into Lillis’ pale-blue and slightly squinting eyes. Project her words, silently, across the dead fire that is now all ashes.
You don’t exist. You’re dead.
And then she can’t stay there any longer, because she is sucked into the pale blur and it makes her shiver. She has to rise and walk down to the lake.
A Darker Shade of Sweden Page 3