Stieg Larsson, My Friend - Kurdo Baksi [13]
That was when everything unravelled. Several contributors resigned from the editorial board, which in turn meant that those who stayed on had to work even harder. Stieg never really forgave the ones who left, even though he must have realized that, less than three years after its launch, Expo was about to sink.
During 1996 and 1997 the editorial board could have been compared to a football team. It comprised Stieg, Andreas, Jenny, Emmy, Tobias, Katarina, Peter, David, Micael, Mikael and a graphic designer. Stieg began as goalkeeper, in order to have the best possible overall view. But as colleagues resigned he also became team captain. That wasn’t enough. So he decided to become the team’s trainer as well. That wasn’t enough either, because he was forced to accept the fact that the number of players at his disposal was becoming fewer and fewer. Having urged them to take the field for one final effort, he asked the referee for extra time.
Stieg refused to let Expo die. The idea that it was over and done for was not something that he could possibly contemplate. This despite the fact that it was clear to any objective observer that the journal was beyond help. Little did I think that I would play a leading role in the reincarnation of Expo lurking round the corner.
I knew that Stieg was under extreme pressure. It was obvious that Expo’s misfortunes were taking their toll. We had been meeting regularly for some years and regarded each other as close friends. He called me his kid brother and I called him my big brother. At first it was mainly for fun, but as time passed the names became a true reflection of our mutual trust.
One day in May 1998, we were in one of Stieg’s favourite cafés, Il Caffè in Kungsholmen, and I had barely taken my first sip of coffee before it became clear that he had something important on his mind.
“Do you realize that I have very few real friends?”
Shaking my head, I said, “Perhaps you work too hard. Friends demand time, we both know that.”
He agreed, and looked sad, almost dejected, which was very unlike him.
“Expo is in ruins,” he said, looking down at his feet.
“So I’ve gathered.”
“We haven’t been able to do any proper journalism for ages. But we do have a trump card – our archive on neo-Nazism and racism in Europe.”
Then something remarkable happened. It was as if at that very moment Stieg began to relive everything the journal had achieved, as if the solution to all its problems had suddenly dawned on him. Presumably he had already decided what he was going to do, but he gave the impression that it was happening even as he spoke, as if his words were leading him on. It was almost as if this was the moment when he regained his faith in Expo. As if an idea had just struck like a flash of lightning and taken possession of him.
“It’s time to take some decisions,” he said, leaning back in the little chair at the rear of the café. “I’ve been looking for a collaborator who will allow Expo to go its own way. I want to work with a journal without links to any particular political party. I’m tired of people accusing us of being a journal linked to the left.”
Then he leaned forward and looked me in the eye.
“I’ll come clean. We have about sixty kronor in the kitty. Do you think you could come to Expo’s rescue?”
I sat there in astonishment.
“How do you think that would be possible?”
“I thought you’d ask that,” he said, stubbing out his cigarette. The smile I was so familiar with returned to his face, those