Millenium [02] The Girl Who Played With Fire

by Stieg Larsson

  Berger was incredibly happy to be Blomkvist’s friend and confidante. In certain ways he was a fool, and in others so insightful that he seemed like an oracle. But he had never understood her love for her husband, had never been able to grasp why she considered Greger Beckman such an enchanting person: warm, exciting, generous, and above all without many of the traits that she so detested in most men. Beckman was the man she wanted to grow old with. She had wanted to have children with him, but it had not been possible and now it was too late. But in her choice of a life partner she could not imagine a better or more stable person—someone she could so completely and wholeheartedly trust and who was always there for her when she needed him.

  Blomkvist was very different. He was a man with such shifting traits that he sometimes appeared to have multiple personalities. As a professional he was obstinate and almost pathologically focused on the job at hand. He took hold of a story and worked his way forward to the point where it approached perfection, and then he tied up all the loose ends. When he was at his best he was brilliant, and when he was not at his best he was still far better than the average. He seemed to have an almost intuitive gift for deciding which story was hiding a skeleton in the closet and which story would turn into a dull, run-of-the-mill piece. She had never regretted working with him.

  Nor had she ever regretted becoming his lover.

  The only person who understood Berger’s passion for sex with Blomkvist was her husband, and he understood it because she dared to discuss her needs with him. It was not a matter of infidelity, but of desire. Sex with Blomkvist gave her a kick that no other man was able to give her, including her husband.

  Sex was important to her. She had lost her virginity when she was fourteen and spent a great part of her teenage years in a frustrated search for fulfilment. She had tried everything, from heavy petting with classmates and an awkward affair with a teacher to phone sex and fetishism. She had experimented with most of what interested her in eroticism. She had toyed with bondage and been a member of Club Xtreme, which arranged parties of the kind that were not socially acceptable. On several occasions she had tried sex with other women and, disappointed, admitted that it simply was not her thing and that women could not excite her even a fraction as much as a man could. Or two. With Beckman she had explored sex with two men—one of them a famous gallery owner—and discovered both that her mate had a strong bisexual inclination and that she herself was almost paralyzed with pleasure at feeling two men simultaneously caressing and satisfying her, just as she experienced a sense of pleasure that was difficult to define when she watched her husband being caressed by another man. She and Beckman had repeated that excitement with the same success with a couple of regular partners.

  It was not that her sex life with her husband was boring or unsatisfying. It was just that Blomkvist gave her a completely different experience.

  He had talent. He was quite simply so good that it felt as if she had achieved the optimal balance with Beckman as husband and Blomkvist as lover-when-needed. She could not do without either of them, and she had no intention of choosing between them.

  And this was what her husband had understood, that she had a need beyond what he could offer her, even in the form of his most imaginative acrobatic exercises in the Jacuzzi.

  What Berger liked best about her relationship with Blomkvist was the fact that he had no desire whatsoever to control her. He was not the least bit jealous, and even though she herself had had several attacks of jealousy when they first began to go out together twenty years ago, she had discovered that in his case she did not need to be jealous. Their relationship was built on friendship, and in matters of friendship he was boundlessly loyal. It was a relationship that would survive the harshest tests.

  But it bothered her that so many of her acquaintances still whispered about her relationship with Blomkvist, and always behind her back.

  Blomkvist was a man. He could go from bed to bed without anyone raising their eyebrows. She was a woman, and the fact that she had a lover, and with her husband’s consent—coupled with the fact that she had also been true to her lover for twenty years—resulted in the most interesting dinner conversations.

  She thought for a moment and then picked up the phone to call her husband.

  “Hi, darling. What are you doing?”

  “Writing.”

  Beckman was not just an artist; he was most of all a professor of art history and the author of several books. He often participated in public debate, and he acted as consultant to several large architecture firms. For the past year he had been working on a book about the artistic decoration of buildings and its influence, and why people prospered in some buildings but not in others. The book had begun to develop into an attack on functionalism which (Berger suspected) would cause a furor.

  “How’s it going?”

  “Good. It’s flowing. How about you?”

  “I just finished the latest issue. It’s going to the printer on Thursday.”

  “Well done.”

  “I’m wiped out.”

  “It sounds like you’ve got something in mind.”

  “Have you planned anything for tonight? Would you be terribly upset if I didn’t come home?”

  “Say hello to Blomkvist and tell him he’s tempting fate,” said Beckman.

  “He might like that.”

  “OK. Then tell him that you’re a witch who’s impossible to satisfy and he’ll end up aging prematurely.”

  “He knows that.”

  “In that case all that’s left for me is to commit suicide. I’m going to keep writing until I pass out. Have a good time.”

  Blomkvist was at Svensson and Johansson’s place in Enskede, wrapping up a discussion about some details in Svensson’s manuscript. She wondered if he was busy tonight, or would he consider giving a massage to an aching back.

  “You’ve got the keys,” he said. “Make yourself at home.”

  “I will. See you in an hour or so.”

  It took her ten minutes to walk to Bellmansgatan. She undressed and showered and made espresso. Then she crawled into bed and waited naked and full of anticipation.

  The optimum gratification for her would probably be a threesome with her husband and Blomkvist, and that would never happen. Blomkvist was so straight that she liked to tease him about being a homophobe. He had zero interest in men. Apparently you could not get everything you wanted in this world.

  The blond giant frowned in irritation as he manoeuvred the car at ten miles an hour along a forest road in such bad repair that for a while he thought he must have taken a wrong turn. It was just beginning to get dark when the road finally widened and he caught sight of the cabin. He stopped, turned off the engine, and took a look around. He had about fifty yards to go.

  He was in the region of Stallarholmen, not far from the town of Mariefred. It was a simple 1950s cabin in the middle of the woods. Through a line of trees he could see a strip of ice on Lake Mälaren.

  He could not imagine why anyone would want to spend their free time in such an isolated place. He felt suddenly uncomfortable when he shut the car door behind him. The forest seemed threatening, as if it were closing in around him. He sensed that he was being watched. He started towards the cabin, but he heard a rustling that made him stop short.

  He stared into the woods. It was dusk, silent with no wind. He stood there for two minutes with his nerves on full alert before, seeing it out of the corner of his eye, he realized that a figure was silently, slowly moving in the trees. When his eyes focused, he saw that the figure was standing perfectly still about thirty yards into the forest, staring at him.

  He felt a vague panic. He tried to make out details. He saw a dark, bony face. It appeared to be a dwarf, no more than half his own size, and dressed in something that looked like a tunic of pine branches and moss. A forest troll? A leprechaun?

  He held his breath. He felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck.

  Then he blinked six
times and shook his head. When he looked again the creature had moved about ten yards to the right. There was nobody there. He knew that he was imagining things. And yet he could so clearly make out the figure in the trees. Suddenly it moved and came closer. It seemed to be lurching in a semicircle to get into a position to attack him.

  The blond giant hurried to the cabin. He knocked a little too hard on the door. As soon as he heard voices within, his panic subsided. He looked over his shoulder. There was nothing there.

  But he did not breathe out until the door opened. Bjurman greeted him courteously and invited him in.

  Miriam Wu was panting when she arrived back upstairs after dragging the last trash bag of Salander’s possessions down to the recycling room in the cellar. The apartment was clinically clean and smelled of soap, paint, and freshly brewed coffee made by Salander. She was sitting on a stool, gazing thoughtfully at the bare rooms from which curtains, rugs, discount coupons on the refrigerator, and her usual junk in the hall had vanished as if by magic. She was amazed at how much bigger the apartment seemed.

  Mimmi and Salander did not have the same taste in clothes, furniture, or intellectual stimulation. Correction: Mimmi had taste and definite views on how she wanted her living quarters to look, what kind of furniture she wanted, and what sort of clothes one should wear. Salander had no taste whatsoever, Mimmi realized.

  After she had inspected the apartment on Lundagatan as closely as an estate agent might, they had discussed things and Mimmi had decided that most of the stuff had to go. Especially the disgusting dirt-brown sofa in the living room. Did Salander want to keep any of the things? No. Then Mimmi had spent a few long days as well as several hours each evening for two weeks throwing out bits of old furniture, cleaning cupboards, scrubbing the floor, scouring the bathtub, and repainting the walls in the kitchen, living room, bedroom, and hall. She also varnished the parquet floor in the living room.

  Salander had no interest in such tasks, but she came several times to watch Mimmi at work, fascinated. Eventually the apartment was empty of everything except for a kitchen table of solid wood, much the worse for wear, that Mimmi intended to sand down and refinish, two stools that Salander had pounced on when an attic in the building was cleared, and a set of sturdy shelves in the living room that Mimmi thought she could repaint.

  “I’m moving in this weekend, unless you’re going to change your mind.”

  “I don’t need the apartment.”

  “But it’s a great apartment. I mean, there are bigger and better apartments, but it’s slap in the middle of Söder and the rent is nothing. Lisbeth, you’re passing up a fortune by not selling it.”

  “I have enough to get by.”

  Mimmi shut up, not sure how to interpret Salander’s brusque dismissal.

  “Where are you living now?”

  Salander did not reply.

  “Could a person come and visit you?”

  “Not right now.”

  Salander opened her shoulder bag, took out some papers, and passed them over to Mimmi.

  “I’ve fixed the agreement with the housing association. The simplest thing is to register you as my roommate and say I’m selling half of the apartment to you. The price is one krona. You have to sign the contract.”

  Mimmi took the pen and signed the contract, adding her date of birth.

  “Is that all?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Lisbeth, I’ve always thought that you were a little weird. Do you realize that you just gave away half of this apartment to me? I’d love to have the apartment, but I don’t want to end up in a situation where you suddenly regret it or it causes bad feelings between us.”

  “There will never be any bad feelings. I want you to live here. It feels right to me.”

  “But with nothing in return? You’re nuts.”

  “You’re taking care of my mail. That’s the deal.”

  “That’ll take me an average of four seconds a week. Do you intend to come over once in a while to have sex?”

  Salander fixed her eyes on Mimmi. She was quiet for a moment.

  “I’d like to very much, but it’s not part of the contract. You can say no whenever you want.”

  Mimmi sighed. “And here I was just beginning to enjoy being a kept woman. You know, having somebody who gives me an apartment and pays my rent and comes over now and then to wrestle around in bed.”

  They sat in silence for a while. Then Mimmi stood up resolutely and went into the living room to turn off the bare bulb in the ceiling fixture.

  “Come here.”

  Salander followed her.

  “I’ve never had sex on the floor of a newly painted apartment with almost no furniture. I saw a movie with Marlon Brando once about a couple in Paris who did it.”

  Salander glanced at the floor.

  “I feel like playing. Are you up for it?” Mimmi said.

  “I’m almost always up for it.”

  “Tonight I think I’ll be a dominating bitch. I get to make the decisions. Take off your clothes.”

  Salander smiled a crooked smile. She took off her clothes. It took at least ten seconds.

  “Lie down on the floor. On your stomach.”

  Salander did as Mimmi commanded. The parquet floor was cool and her skin got goose bumps immediately. Mimmi used Salander’s T-shirt with the slogan YOU HAVE THE RIGHT TO REMAIN SILENT to tie her hands behind her back.

  Salander could not help thinking that this was similar to the way Nils Fucking Slimebag Bjurman had tied her up two years ago.

  The similarities ended there.

  With Mimmi, Salander felt only lustful anticipation. She was compliant when Mimmi rolled her over on her back and spread her legs. Salander watched her in the dim room as she pulled off her own T-shirt, and was fascinated by her soft breasts. Then Mimmi tied her T-shirt as a blindfold over Salander’s eyes. She could hear the rustle of clothes. A few seconds later she felt Mimmi’s tongue on her belly and her fingers on the inside of her thighs. She was more excited than she had been in a long time. She shut her eyes tight beneath the blindfold and let Mimmi set the pace.

  CHAPTER 8

  Monday, February 14–Saturday, February 19

  Armansky looked up when he heard the light knock on the doorjamb and saw Salander in the doorway. She was balancing two cups from the espresso machine. He put down his pen and pushed the report away.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “Hi.”

  “This is a social call,” she said. “May I come in?”

  Armansky closed his eyes for a second. Then he pointed at the visitor’s chair. He glanced at the clock. It was 6:30 in the evening. Salander gave him one of the cups and sat down. They took stock of each other for a moment.

  “More than a year,” Armansky said.

  Salander nodded.

  “Are you mad?”

  “Should I be?”

  “I didn’t say goodbye.”

  Armansky pursed his lips. He was shocked to see her, but at the same time relieved to discover that at least she wasn’t dead. He suddenly felt a strong sense of irritation and weariness.

  “I don’t know what to say,” he said. “You don’t have any obligation to tell me what you’re working on. What do you want?”

  His voice sounded cooler than he had intended.

  “I’m not sure. I mostly just wanted to say hello.”

  “Do you need a job? I’m not going to employ you again.”

  She shook her head.

  “Are you working somewhere else?”

  She shook her head again. She seemed to be trying to formulate her words. Armansky waited.

  “I’ve been travelling,” she said at last. “I’m only recently back.”

  Armansky studied her. There was a new kind of … maturity in her choice of clothes and her bearing. And she had stuffed her bra with something.

  “You’ve changed. Where have you been?”

  “Here and there …” she said, but when she sa
w his annoyance she added, “I went to Italy and kept going, to the Middle East, to Hong Kong via Bangkok. I was in Australia for a while and New Zealand, and I island-hopped my way across the Pacific. I was in Tahiti for a month. Then I travelled through the U.S. and I spent the last few months in the Caribbean. I don’t know why I didn’t say goodbye.”

  “I’ll tell you why: because you don’t give a shit about other people,” Armansky said matter-of-factly.

  Salander bit her lower lip. “Usually it’s other people who don’t give a shit about me.”

  “Bullshit,” Armansky said. “You’ve got an attitude problem and you treat people like dirt when they’re trying to be your friends. It’s that simple.”

  Silence.

  “Do you want me to leave?”

  “You do as you like. You always have. But if you leave now I never want to see you again.”

  Salander was suddenly afraid. Someone she respected was about to reject her. She did not know what to say.

  “It’s been two years since Holger Palmgren had his stroke. You haven’t once visited him,” Armansky went on relentlessly.

  Salander stared at Armansky, shocked. “Palmgren is alive?”

  “You don’t even know if he’s alive or dead.”

  “The doctors said that he—”

  “The doctors said a lot about him,” Armansky interrupted. “He was in a very bad way and couldn’t communicate with anyone. But in the last year he’s recovered quite a bit. He doesn’t articulate too well—you have to listen carefully to understand what he’s saying. He needs help with a lot of things, but he can go to the toilet by himself. People who care about him call in to spend time with him.”

  Salander sat dumbfounded. She was the one who had found Palmgren after he had his stroke two years earlier. She had called the ambulance and the doctors had shaken their heads and said that the prognosis was not encouraging. She had lived at the hospital for three days until a doctor told her that Palmgren was in a coma and it was extremely unlikely that he would come out of it. She had stood up and left the hospital without looking back. And obviously without checking to find out what had happened.