Girl Who Played with Fire, The - Stieg Larsson [61]
“Dscrt.”
“I didn’t understand.”
“Dstrc crt.”
“The district court? What do you mean?”
“Gtta cancl yr d … dc … dclrash incmp …”
Palmgren’s face turned red and he grimaced when he could not pronounce the words. Salander put a hand on his arm and pressed gently.
“Holger … don’t worry about me. I have plans to take on my declaration of incompetence soon. It’s not your worry any longer, but I may need your help eventually. Is that OK? Will you be my lawyer if I need you?”
He shook his head.
“Tu old.” He rapped his knuckle on the arm of his wheelchair. “Dum ld man.”
“Yeah, you’re a dumb old man if you have that attitude. I need a legal advisor and I want you. You may not be able to give a statement in court, but you can give me advice when the time comes. Would you?”
He shook his head again, and then he nodded.
“Wrk?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Wut ju work on? Not Armshi.” What are you working on? Not Armansky
Salander hesitated while she debated how to explain her situation. It was complicated.
“I’m not working for Armansky anymore. I don’t need to work for him to make a living. I have my own money and I’m doing fine.”
Palmgren’s eyebrows knitted together again.
“I’ll come and visit you a lot, starting today. I’ll tell you all about… but let’s not get stressed about things. Right now there’s something else I want to do.”
She bent down and lifted a bag to the table and took out a chessboard.
“I haven’t had the chance to sweep the floor with you for two whole years.”
He gave up. She was up to some mischief that she did not want to talk about. He was quite sure he would have severe reservations, but he trusted her enough still to know that whatever she was up to might be dubious in the eyes of the law but not a crime against God’s laws. Unlike most other people who knew her, Palmgren was sure that Salander was a genuinely moral person. The problem was that her notion of morality did not always coincide with that of the justice system.
She set out the chessmen in front of him and he recognized with shock that it was his own board. She must have pinched it from the apartment after he fell ill. As a keepsake? She gave him white. All of a sudden he was as happy as a child.
Salander stayed with Palmgren for two hours. She had crushed him three times before a nurse interrupted their bickering over the board, announcing that it was time for his afternoon physical therapy. Salander collected the chessmen and folded up the board.
“Can you tell me what kind of physical therapy he’s getting?” she said.
“It’s strength and coordination training. And we’re making progress, aren’t we?”
Palmgren nodded grimly.
“You can already walk several steps. By summer you’ll be able to walk by yourself in the park. Is this your daughter?”
Salander’s and Palmgren’s eyes met.
“Ster dotr.” Foster daughter.
“How nice that you came to visit.” Where the hell have you been all this time? Salander ignored the unmistakable meaning. She leaned forward and kissed Palmgren on the cheek.
“I’ll come again on Friday.”
Palmgren stood up laboriously from his wheelchair. She walked with him to an elevator. As soon as the elevator doors had closed she went to the front desk and asked to speak to whoever was responsible for the patients. She was referred to a Dr. A. Sivarnandan, whom she found in an office further down a corridor. She introduced herself, explaining that she was Palmgren’s foster daughter.
“I’d like to know how he’s doing and what’s going to happen with him.”
Dr. Sivarnandan looked up Palmgren’s casebook and read the introductory pages. His skin was pitted by smallpox and he had a thin moustache which Salander found absurd. Finally he sat back. To her surprise he spoke with a Finnish accent.
“I have no record of Herr Palmgren having a daughter or foster daughter. In fact, his nearest relative would seem to be an eighty-six-year-old cousin in