Girl Who Played with Fire, The - Stieg Larsson [54]
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